Doubt and Debts
by Achromos
Summary: Thranduil saved Thorin's life, and Thorin doesn't know why. Finding out might have side-effects; wanted and unwanted ones.
1. The Aftermath

**Author's Note:** In denial of the ending Mr Tolkien provided us with in his book and in dreadful anticipation of Peter Jacksons deliverance of said ending I came up with this. It will have multiple chapters that loosely tie together and tell the continuous story of Thorin and Thranduil, beginning with the Battle of the Five Armies.

I make no promises whatsoever. Lmao I'm gonna pretend I don't have an exam next week lalala ...

I would like to dedicate this to the wonderful and talented **XxIrisxX**, to whom I promised a new Thorinduil fic very long months ago and I never delivered. Here it is, at last. I hope you like it.

-:-

It must have been a split-second decision to come to his rescue, Thorin concluded.

He had gotten separated from the main force of the dwarven army, facing down Azog and his foul white beast. His trusted oaken shield long lost, Orcrist taken by the elves, unaccustomed to fighting in full armour and tired already from fighting the goblin army, Thorin was just a small, helpless little bug in front of this ruthless adversary. One blow from the orc's mace had almost torn off Thorin's leg, the white warg had crushed his ribs earlier, and his left arm felt numb from all the blows he had to block with the shield strapped to it. Just when the warg prepared to jump and Thorin took a step back, ground his feet in the muddy ground and readied himself to absorb the blow that was about to follow, he heard a high, piercing battle cry coming from the right. A flash of grey and white, a howl, and suddenly there was a lot of red staining the warg's shabby fur.

Azog roared and dismounted from his screaming and convulsing – _dying_ – beast, and stepped towards the grey bundle lying in the mud, mace raised high.

Thorin answered the white orc's cry with a shout and used his weight and low centre of gravity to barrel into the monster's legs, trying to topple him, but his charge was met with the twisted metal claw Azog now possessed in place of his left hand. The points screeched across Thorin's breastplate, leaving deep scratch marks in the metal.

"Azog!" came a challenging shout, and the painful pressure left Thorin's armour, allowing him to breathe again. The white orc stepped aside, snorting as if amused. Then Thorin saw Thranduil, rising from the mud. His long, silvery hair was tangled and encrusted with dirt and blood, but his crown still sat proudly on his furrowed brow. He lifted a dwarven shield and a spear the men of Laketown used.

Azog spat something in his filthy language and roared a bellowing laugh, but the Elvenking only re-adjusted his gloved grip on the spear.

"It's two against one, _beast_," the elf hissed in return and charged.

Thorin stretched his burning shield arm a few times to get his circulation flowing and spun the battle axe in his right, waiting for an opening, but Thranduil kept attacking the white orc in a flurry of movements, cutting and piercing the off-white skin. Azog only grinned, seemingly not minding the shallow wounds, until the Laketown spear drove deep into his calf. He grunted and shook his head, but apparently the spear was stuck, because Thranduil didn't retreat, until the orc's metal fist connected with his jaw, tearing skin and flesh.

Thranduil's mad laugh made the hair on Thorin's neck stand in terror.

Still, seeing a chance there, he jumped between the taller bodies, pushing with his shield and hacking inelegantly with his axe. He hit armour and bone, but muscle and sinews too. Azog roared and pushed them both off of him with a hard shove.

Thranduil recovered faster than Thorin and intercepted Azog's sprint towards them, but somehow he must have lost his shield, because he caught the orc's mace with his bare hands. Luckily elven blacksmithing wasn't completely useless, or Azog's repeated hits to the elf's shoulder, back and ribs with his free metal hand would have killed him already.

Thorin blocked one of these blows and pulled Azog's metal hand to the side, hooking it with his axe. This gave Thranduil time to recover, and when Thorin punched his heavy shield into the white orc's ribs, a thin white blade appeared seemingly out of nowhere and pierced Azog's neck.

"_Die_," Thranduil hissed and twisted the blade. Azog tried to roar, but only blood gushed from his mouth. His strength was not diminished somehow, when he tore his metal claw from Thorin's blockage. Thorin got shoved away and- …

He landed face first in the mud and twisted his body to get onto his feet again as quickly as possible, only to see Azog, blood-stained and mad with pain and fury, keeping Thranduil in a death grip around his throat while burying his metal claw in the elf's abdomen again and again and …

Seeing red Thorin gathered all his remaining strength, raised his axe and threw it, embedding it in the white orc's skull.

Panting and trembling, Thorin watched as the two bodies slumped into the dirt. White and silver and grey, stained with red and brown. There were spluttering, coughing noises from where Azog was drowning in his own blood, but only silence from the Elvenking. Thorin gripped a handful of silvery hair, his movements clumsy with exhaustion and the thickness of his gauntlets, and there was blood; warm, bright red blood, brighter than dwarven or human blood. Sweeter smelling too.

"Thranduil," he rasped and prepared to hoist a heavy weight, considering the elf's height and build, but the Elvenking's body was as light as a bundle of cloth and slipped between his fingers like finest silk. The elf let out a quiet, bubbling noise of protest when he landed on his back in the mud.

Thorin remembered a blue as vivid as the summertime sky, but now Thranduil's eyes seemed dulled, robbed of their colour in contrast to the too bright red staining his lips and jaw.

"You saved me," Thorin whispered softly and shuddered when those eyes closed.

-:-

So many were dead. The months leading up to Thorin's coronation were not spent celebrating, singing and feasting. They were spent mourning the slain, their fallen brothers and sisters-in-arms. And Thorin blamed himself, for so many, so, so many would not be buried and cold were it not for his blindness. His sickness. His weakness.

Those rebuilding the city of Dale had set up a monument to represent the fallen of men, dwarves and elves alike. It consisted of a large boulder, into whose surface a shield was carved representing the dwarves, a spear for the men of Laketown, and three chiselled arrowheads that stood for the elves. In dwarvish runes, mannish letters and elven Tengwar they wrote: _In remembrance of those that stood in bravery and honour against the Evil of Middle-Eart._

Thorin often found himself in front of this mural, which he had inlaid with veins of mithril by the best smiths they had at hand. Though once when he took his time to pay homage to the fallen before he had to meet Bard of Dale, he saw an unlikely figure kneeling in front of the memorial, clad in brilliant white.

"Thranduil," he said and stepped closer, staring at the small pots strewn around the hunched shape. The Elvenking himself did not seem to have heard him, though Thorin could see his guard nervously fingering his arrows. He held up his hands in a show of good intentions and took another step, deliberately treading on a pebble. Thranduil's head then shot up and he met Thorin's gaze with a startled expression, a paintbrush held out as if it was a dagger.

"Ah, King under the Mountain," the Elvenking said and tilted his head in greeting. "Forgive me, I was enraptured in my work."

"Indeed, what is it you are doing?" Thorin asked curiously and eyed the monument.

"The men carved it. You adorned it with mithril. I am simply adding my part," Thranduil said, wiping his hands on a clean towel. There had been no speck of colour on his fingers though as far as Thorin could see.

Thorin hummed and stood beside him, squinting. Either the Elvenking had only just begun painting, or it wasn't that impressive. Actually, he couldn't see anything at all. Thranduil chuckled softly when he saw his expression.

"It is only visible at night. We call it _aglarnen_. It captures light when there is any and gives it off in darkness."

"And what are you painting? Pretty flowers and leaves?" Thorin mocked, crossing his hands behind his back and peering down on Thranduil. Oh, how satisfying this position was, for once him being the taller one. The Elvenking did not seem to mind though, since he did not take offense and chuckled again.

"Something along those lines. Perhaps you might find it in yourself to return some night once I'm finished and see it for yourself."

Thorin grunted doubtfully, but the interest had already been kindled. He would come back anyway, so why not see what the elf had doodled?

"I would not have taken you for a painter, Thranduil."

The Elvenking, still sitting on the hard stone floor, fiddled with the pot in front of him, placing a lid on it. A smile played around his lips, though the line of his brow spoke another tale.

"My wife used to paint murals, not unlike this. She taught me some of her craft."

Thorin frowned. He could not recall ever hearing about an Elvenqueen, though there had to be one out of the simple reason that there was a prince.

"She died," Thranduil whispered, as if he had read his mind.

"In this battle?" Thorin choked out, feeling as if he were suddenly drowning in blood. So many. So many were dead. It was his fault, he had been too weak, tainted with sickness, consumed by greed and hatred …

"No, no. Long ago."

He took a strained breath and grounded himself in Thranduil's precise movements as he cleaned his brush.

"My condolences."

"Thank you."

It sounded hollow, even to his ears. But it was better than nothing. Better than hatred.

"I should be continuing my work."

"Oh." Thorin cleared his throat. "Of course."

Thranduil peered up at him from behind a loose strand of silvery hair, and when he said nothing in return, Thorin awkwardly took his leave and made his way to the townhouse, which was actually rather an orphanage. But he didn't hear the racket of excited children and didn't mind being bumped into on almost every step of his way. His mind was still pouring over his surprisingly civilised and calm conversation with Thranduil, and the mural which he – if he was honest with himself – could not wait to see in its fully glory.

-:-

A week later he received a small note that somehow simply appeared on his desk, written in a curling, sprawling hand. The heavy parchment smelled distinctly of resin, and faintly of honey. There was no seal or signature, it simply said: _You can see it now._

Thorin could contain his curiosity for exactly one night and one day, before he took a pony and paid Dale a visit. He made his usual rounds, going to the orphanage to play with the human children, visiting the latest building site to talk to the supervisors, and lastly the newly minted market place, where he chatted with the first stall owners. Thus he spent his time and waited for the sun to set. Only then did he steer his steps towards the upper part of Dale, where the bell tower used to be, and where the monument now stood. The sky was still a dark, bruised purple, only a handful of the brightest stars were visible, so he wasn't sure whether the mural would be able to unfold its full effect. But then he went around the last corner, and he thought a piece of the sky must have fallen, for the monument glistened and glowed like a starry night-time sky in its full glory.

As he went closer he felt dizzy, feeling as if he were to fall up into this spread of stars. They weren't just bright glowing dots on a rock, but Thorin actually recognised some of the constellations. There was Mahal's anvil, stretched across the carved dwarven shield. Here was the Fisherman, whose fishing rod aligned with the Laketown spears. And there was the morning star, called Eärendil by the elves and believed to be a Silmaril, sitting on the tip of an engraved arrowhead.

Thorin remembered something he overheard Tauriel tell Kíli, namely that the starlight was most precious to the wood elves in particular. And while Thorin preferred more palpable things, he accepted this mural as a thing worthy of remembrance, as this was the purpose of the memorial.

* * *

><p>What do you think? I would love to hear from you guys, reviews are the fuel of my depraved soul.<p>

Btw. _aglarnen_ is totally made up. I derived it from _aglar_ (shining white) and -_nen_ (water).


	2. The Coronation

**Author's Note:** To celebrate tonight's premiere of The Hobbit - The Battle of the Five Armies in London and Wellington etc. etc. and in light of the stress I will face the next two weeks (probably keeping me from writing much), I give you this short chapter. Second installment of the royal meetings! This is part 1 of two, kind of.

Enjoy!

-:-

Thorin sported a pounding headache hours before the actual crowning ceremony, and it was in no small part due to his nephews' bickering over who was to stand on which side of him during their entrance into the grand hall. Dís was trying her best to tame their overexcited spirits, but there was only so much even a mother and sister could do.

"Kíli on my left, Fíli on my right, and Dís right behind us, so she can pull you by your ears if you misbehave. And if she will not, I'm sure Balin will gladly skin you alive for messing up the ceremony," Thorin eventually growled. His headache did not get better though, not with the prospect of having to wear a several pound heavy stone crown for the rest of his life. Maybe it was also connected to the knowledge that his people were gathered outside, together with envoys from Dale, Esgaroth, Mirkwood, the Iron Hills, the Blue Mountains, the Shire, Imladris, Rohan and even Lothlórien. Only Gondor sends its regards.

It seriously made him doubt whether he was king material, since diplomacy was and never had been his forte.

As Dís ushered them all out the door and into the roaring wall of cheering dwarves. It felt surprisingly good to drown in an ocean of living beings for one, a sea of joy and happiness, no blood or hatred in sight. He relished the strong hands that gripped his, the glittering eyes he looked into as he passed the dwarves, his people, the souls he was meant to guide and rule. It sparked off a proud flame of melancholy, knowing that they still trusted him. Despite the dead that were on his conscience.

"Thorin! Thorin!" they chanted; they sung Erebor's name, prayers to Mahal or blessings to the line of Durin. This powerful choir of hopeful voices elevated Thorin's spirit, sweeping his doubts and pain away until he felt like he was flying towards the dais where Balin waited. The silence that fell when he stood there, clad in Durin blue, was just as deafening as the cries of faith had been.

"Dwarves of Erebor!" he started, throwing his arms wide. "Today is not the day I am crowned King Under the Mountain. We will not celebrate the beginning of my reign. We will not rejoice at the continuation of the line of Thrór. Today I make a promise to you, my people, my children, my brothers and sisters. I promise to you that _we are home_."

Roaring applause rose at his words, but he was not finished.

"We are the dwarves of Erebor, first and foremost of the seven clans. We have reclaimed our homeland, and here we will live and prosper. But!" He held up a hand as the audience wanted to cheer again. "But, I must also remind you that many of us would not be standing here if not for the help of men and elves. Among you are warriors and healers and simple people, who have all helped rebuild what we lost, who helped improve upon it until this day and will continue to do so. To you I make a promise as well. I promise to you that there will be peace and friendship and loyalty."

The responding applause sounded less enthusiastic, but all the more proud and full of promise for it. Thorin nodded once, searching for the faces of his honorary guests in the crowd. He believed he saw the Lady Galadriel, and Gandalf, and Bard's children.

"We have all seen and fought the Evil that sought to use the North to its advantage – but have we not prevailed?"

A thundering "Yes!" answered him.

"Will we not continue to stand firm?"

"Yes!"

"To the Rohirrim and the Galadhrim and the Hobbits of the Shire and all our allies we promise this: the dwarves of Erebor will not fall! We will fight and stand with you! We will not abandon you to death or hunger or sickness!" He paused and slipped his hand into his pocket, where he felt the cold-warm presence of the one and only thing that had ever bested him: the Arkenstone. He held it up high and boomed: "This heart of the Mountain has bound the dwarf clans since the days of my grandfather. He who held it had the right to summon all seven clans and bind them to his will. But from today on this Arkenstone shall be the symbol of our allegiance to Middle Earth, our fight against Evil. Let us be bound to our promise to always stand with those that need our help – for we know the value of the hand extended in charity."

Bowing to the cheers of his people, Thorin stepped back and waited for Balin to begin the ceremony. He had requested for it to be short and simple, so all the older dwarf did was make him swear to protect his people, lead them to prosperity and to uphold his promises. Then he set the old crown made of basalt and mithril on Thorin's brow and declared him Thorin II. Oakenshield of the line of Durin, King Under the Mountain and First Lord of the seven clans.

Then, as per custom, the other dwarf lords swore their allegiance to him, and when they had all taken their oaths, the honorary guests each stepped forward and presented their gifts to him.

First came Bard, who presented him with an intricately woven tapestry that showed the whole line of Durin. The man apologised for not bringing a more impressive gift, but Thorin assured him that it was of high emotional value. Laketown's new Master gifted to him a steering wheel, the symbolic representation of a ship they had made in his name and which Thorin declared to be set to use to deliver goods Erebor wished to trade. The Rohirrim had brought with them a dozen of their best ponies, which Thorin assigned to his outer patrols where he promised that they will be put to good use.

Bilbo shyly stepped forward and brought with him several boxes of the Shire's finest Old Toby tobacco, which Thorin declared to be shared with the whole Company. Behind him approached Lord Elrond and his daughter, the Lady Arwen. They presented him with samples of ithildin and books that described the process with which mithril could be treated to create moon runes or moon doors – a process that had long been forgotten. Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn then brought chests full of scrolls that explained how to create elflights, a kind of lantern that did not produce heat or a flame and could thus be used effectively in mines.

At last Thranduil, wearing his lush green summer crown, flanked by his son and an unknown elf, stepped forward. The Elvenking bowed once, and Thorin almost forgot to mirror the gesture in his surprise – he remembered all too well how both Thrór and Thranduil had refused to bow to each other so many years ago.

"Three gifts I offer you, King Under the Mountain," Thranduil said, voice low but carrying. "Firstly I present to you these tomes, written in Khuzdul by Elu Thingol himself, on the history of the dwarves and their friendship with the elves of Doriath, who were my kin." The unknown elf lifted a chest and placed it before Thorin before opening the lid, revealing several thick and obviously very old bound tomes.

"Secondly I present to you a harp that I carved myself from the wood of an ancient maple tree that grew in the heart of the Greenwood for hundreds of years. The strings are elf-hair, and the wood is inlaid with moonstones. May you find peace and joy in its sound." The elf revealed another chest, longer and narrower than the other one, but when he opened this one's lid, Thorin felt his jaw fall in awe. Oh how he missed this particular kind of music; the feel of strings under his fingers and the reverberation of singing wood against his chest. Before he could succumb to the temptation to touch it his gaze met that of Thranduil and he felt his breath hitch, so gentle and wild were the elf's eyes.

"My third gift is of a more sentimental value," Thranduil continued, sky blue eyes still connected to Thorin's own. From the folds of his layered, bright white robe the Elvenking produced a small clay pot sealed with wax. "I hope you remember _aglarnen_, and what it means to me. With it I extend to you my willingness to renew the friendship that once existed between our people, in the names of those lost to us and those that will come long after we are gone."

Moved, Thorin accepted the pot and touched the rim of wax, where moments ago Thranduil's fingers had rested. However, there was no residual warmth he could have chased.

"I thank you," Thorin rasped, not trusting his voice with any more words. But the glint in the Elvenking's eyes told him that it was not needed. They bowed to each other again, and Thranduil oddly accepted his son's arm for support before joining the other honorary guests at the foot of the dais, white veil-like cloth trailing behind him like a pale shadow.

Thorin then stepped forward again and drew everyone's attention to him.

"Now it is my honour to say this: let the festivities commence!"

-:-

For three weeks they were already celebrating the coronation of the King Under the Mountain. Later it would be said that more ale and wine got poured than flowed down the River Running. Thorin would not know, but he agreed that it was as merry a gathering as there ever had been one. The men did not hold liquor quite as well as the dwarves, but especially the elves of Mirkwood showed a surprising amount of festive mood. They drank the most potent Dorwinion wines as if it were water and danced madly like there was no tomorrow. Thorin himself liked to sit back and observe the joyous folly from afar, though from time to time he would let Dís drag him into a particularly loud and wild dance. The music was mainly provided by the local dwarves and men, but some elves shared the rare non-melancholy piece with them as well. As said before, Thorin had never known those icy bastards could be so cheerful.

As the main reason why they feasted, Thorin was expected to be present as much as possible, so he did not get much sleep for those first three weeks, especially since his royal duties did not rest during that time. No, if anything the burden had grown exponentially, partially due to the presence of other rulers at the celebrations. He'd had political, philosophical and sometimes disturbingly cryptic discussions with almost all of them now. At the moment the Lady Galadriel seemed to have taken a liking to his presence and sat to his right at a mostly abandoned table, a glass of wine and some elvish bread garnished with greenery in front of her.

"I have never been to Erebor before," she said, and her low, melodious voice could be heard surprisingly clearly despite the ruckus in the background. She took an elegant bite and smiled at a young elf dashing past them.

"I hope you like it, despite the noise," Thorin replied dryly, and she laughed.

"No, no, it is rather charming. It proves that your people are strong and wilful. Those are admirable traits." Galadriel sipped on her wine and levelled her powerful gaze at him. "For the sakes of all of us I do hope that you will be able to build a friendship with Thranduil. I would hate to see his reign end so, no matter the differences between our people."

Thorin blinked and sat up straighter.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh," she sighed and set down her goblet. Her hands ran over the surface of the table, as if to read its story with her fingertips. "White is the colour of mourning, death and grief."

He thought about this for a while, but when she did not explain and he still did not understand he asked: "I am afraid I don't know what this means."

"Sometimes we elves are too burdened with the deaths of our loved ones. We can feel the calling of the sea or the temptation of death's mercy," she said. "Immortality can be a dreadful curse when life seems bleak and strenuous and horrible. Only love and friendships and kindness can heal a soul that wants to yield to this pressure."

"Are you saying …?"

"I did not say anything," Galadriel said sweetly and rose from her seat, taking her goblet and plate with her. Her dove blue dress disappeared amidst the bright, whirling mass of dancing bodies, leaving Thorin with confusion, a sense of urgency, and a bit of guilt.

Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he would approach Thranduil and ask him directly. There was a question he had meant to ask since that day he had been saved from almost certain death.


	3. The Question

**Author's Note:** Even though I still have a lot to do, I'm posting this chapter in celebration of the tickets I managed to get for BOFA in IMAX 3D on the 10th of December, holy shit, I can't believe it!

Lots of name-dropping in the second part of this chapter. If you don't get it, it's okay, since it's not that important (or the things that are will be explained later again). And btw. the song Galadriel is singing is "Ai! Laurië Lantar", and you can listen to the Tolkien Ensemble version of it to get an idea as to how it would sound. It's beautiful.

As always, enjoy!

-:-

Finding Thranduil among the hundreds if not thousands of celebrators actually proved to be a harder task than it seemed, even though he was wearing white. Thorin spent hours weaving in and out of crowds, getting distracted and delayed by familiar faces and congratulants, until he was on the verge of giving up and went to the library to seek some much needed relief from the noise and bustling outside. The library still bore the marks of Smaug's reign of terror – chunks of stone lay on the ground, scratch marks marred the walls and there was the faint smell of smoke and molten metal in the air. Rock flour and small pebbles crunched beneath Thorin's heavy boots as he strolled along the first few rows of new book-cases and towards the circle of comfortable armchairs, where he saw a tall, pale figure, obviously enraptured in the study of some very old scrolls. He should have known that an elf would feel more at home in a room with books, old tomes and the air of ancient history.

"Your collection lacks some very crucial pieces," Thranduil said, not looking up from the brittle parchment he was carefully balancing on his fingertips. "In fact, there's very little aside from financial records."

"Am I supposed to thank you and your kin for your books again?" Thorin grumbled, but his words lacked fire. He let himself fall into the armchair opposite of Thranduil.

"If you want to." The Elvenking's eyes rose to meet Thorin's gaze and held it for several long moments.

Thorin cleared his throat and nervously looked around. Now that he'd found the Elvenking he felt like asking the question he meant to ask was … silly.

"What were you reading?" he asked instead in an awkward attempt of making conversation.

"A genealogy of the dwarves of Ered Luin." Thranduil stared at the parchment on his hands with a glazed-over look in his eyes, as if his thoughts were miles away. "The Sindar cultivated the dwarves of Belegost's friendship once. Or they did, until those of Nogrod came and slayed our High-King."

Thorin had to keep himself from biting his lip uneasily, searching the Elvenking's face. When he met his gaze, his face was cold and detached, and he sat stiff and tense, until he broke eye contact to concentrate on carefully rolling the parchment in his hands back up. He gently gathered the books and scrolls he'd accumulated in his arms and leaned forward, as if to rise from his seat, but a sudden jerking motion wracked his body, sending a few books hurtling to the floor.

"Ah!" Thranduil gasped, collapsing, and Thorin jumped to support both the elf's and the books' weight with his arms.

"Thranduil!" he shouted, helplessly watching as the Elvenking convulsed and fought for breath. Strong fingers dug into the thick fabric that covered Thorin's arms, clutching onto him. He contemplated calling his guards for help, but he knew that most of them were either watching the celebrating crowd or participating in the festivities themselves – there wouldn't be anyone near enough to hear his calls.

After a while whatever was plaguing Thranduil started to subside, though now his wheezes were changed into high pitched whimpers. As soon as the elf's hands lost their stiffness Thorin removed the books and then tried to bring the elf into an upright position, but then his eyes fell on a bright patch of red wetness on the Elvenking's pristine white robe.

"You are bleeding," Thorin exclaimed and quickly divested himself of his cloak to improvise bandages, but the Elvenking tiredly placed a hand on his, effectively freezing him.

"It's nothing," he sighed.

"Doesn't look like nothing to me," Thorin growled. "I won't let a guest bleed out on my watch."

"I am not bleeding out. Sit, and let me explain. It will pass."

Thorin fixed a hard gaze on Thranduil, who met it exhaustedly until he half turned away, rubbing the left side of his face with one hand.

"Sometimes my body … remembers old wounds, and they reappear. You have already witnessed such a thing, when you were … my guest."

"The dragonfire scar."

"Yes." Thranduil scratched the place where Thorin remembered a horrid, gaping wound. Now there was smooth, pale skin.

"And that?" Thorin pointed at the patch of fresh blood.

"Azog."

_Azog, blood-stained and mad with pain and fury, keeping Thranduil in a death grip around his throat while burying his metal claw in the elf's abdomen again and again and …_

Shaking his head, Thorin tore himself out of the memory. This put things into a new perspective though, and made the question he'd come to ask everything but silly.

"Why did you save me?"

As Thranduil looked at him with sky blue eyes, a figure of bright white and now stained red, Thorin unconsciously went through all the possible answers he'd thought of during the past months. Why would his mortal enemy save his life? A tactical advantage, revenge, guilt, responsibility, to spite him, or simply the blood-rush of battle? He never, in all those sleepless nights and silent contemplations, would have reckoned that the Elvenking's answer would be a careless, one-shouldered shrug.

"I don't know."

Thorin felt himself gaping like a stranded fish before he got his expression back under control.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

Thranduil shrugged again.

"Does there have to be a reason? If there was one I do not remember it."

"What … But … Are you _mocking_ me?" Thorin bunched the cloth of his cloak in his hands before snappily clasping it around his shoulders again, if only to hide the enraged trembling of his fingers. "Tell me what you want in return and be done with it. Do you want gold? I already gave you that damned necklace you wanted, and you even took some of Bilbo's treasure for yourself."

"I do not want any of your or your friends' treasure. Also, Master Baggins offered me part of his payment as compensation," Thranduil said in an infuriatingly calm manner.

"Name your price elf, I do not wish to be in your debt."

"There is no debt. We happened to fight the same enemy, and it happened to be me who delivered the fatal blow." He shrugged again.

"I don't believe you. There must be an ulterior motive."

"I assure you, there is none."

Thorin growled and clenched his fists, wanting to tear at his beard, unable to form words. It had been so easy once. He hated Thranduil, and Thranduil hated him; elves and dwarves were enemies. Thranduil saving his life turned this simple truth upside down, and he didn't know what to do about it now. Yes, he'd promised an alliance with men and elves; yes, he wanted to build trust and friendship between their peoples. But so far he'd hoped – he'd assumed that it wouldn't involve having to actually _like_ any of them, much less the Elvenking of all people. Being in his debt had too many implications of faith and dependence to feel comfortable to Thorin. Of course Thranduil could sit there calmly, revelling in the power he now had over him, no matter what he claimed.

"I think I will retire for the day," the elf sighed after they had silently regarded each other for a while.

"We will speak again." It was not a question, but Thranduil nodded as he laboriously rose from his armchair.

"I apologise for the mess," he said and gestured at the books, scrolls and parchments strewn about. Thorin only grunted and watched him slowly slink out of the library, like a dulled, setting sun. Sorting the papers and tomes back into their assigned spots on the shelves actually helped calming his tumultuous thoughts that never ceased to circle around the Elvenking.

-:-

After five weeks the festivities slowly started to lose momentum. There was less dancing and drinking, but more music, conversation and food. Oh, the music. Of course Thorin was asked to sing the song of the Misty Mountains, and while the Company hesitatingly joined him, everyone else was dead silent. It brought forth memories of fire and cold, of homelessness and hunger, of sickness and death. The longing and hope that was so central to his people for over one hundred and fifty years. They had often sung it around crackling campfires in dark forests or while on the road. But here … Erebor was singing with them, magnifying and weaving the sounds into something grander and new. He was not ashamed of the tears he had to pat from his cheeks afterwards.

A few men from Laketown sang a lively sea shanty, which led to a bit of dancing, but the acoustics of the large, cavernous halls did not fit the song as much as they did dwarvish music. Laketown's tunes were meant to be sung on a boat, out on the flat surface of the lake, where there were no echoes. It was still lovely though and let Thorin pierce the veil of sorrow that had overcome him when singing before.

Imladris' elves only played instrumental music, though the Galadhrim joined them with their ethereal choirs, creating an eerie, mysterious atmosphere. Lady Galadriel herself subsequently performed a song, which in turn somehow made all elves sad, though some also looked disgruntled. Among the latter was Thranduil, who promptly walked away as soon as Galadriel let the last chord echo into nothingness. Interesting.

Wanting to investigate this curious incident, Thorin followed Thranduil to the table the Elvenking had chosen as his refuge.

"What was that?" he asked bluntly.

"_Quenya_," Thranduil spit, as if the word itself were venomous. He drew his sweeping, white cloak closer around his shoulders and hunched his shoulders, staring at a spot on the ground. "Blasphemy! I still do not understand how Celeborn … Agh! That Ñoldo witch. How dare she utter that wretched tongue in my presence!"

Even more intrigued, Thorin made a 'go on' gesture.

"You would not understand." After a few more seconds of heated glaring the elf suddenly deflated. "Ah, the curse of the Eldar. It has been so long, yet it still stings."

"I'm afraid I do not know what you speak of."

"Kinslayers! All of them!" Thranduil heaved, his fury relighted, bringing his fist down on the table. Thorin winced when the stone made an ominous cracking noise. "Finwë's spawn, kin of Fëanor! Traitors and murderers, and _Quenya_ is their devious tongue. It was all because of those forsaken Silmarils – just like your Arkenstone." He pointed an accusing finger at Thorin. "Twisting everyone's heads and tempting them to Evil. Let her have her _Valimar_, but I will not tolerate her soiling Elbereth Gilthoniel's name with that foul tongue."

"I think I remember now. I heard about these things when I was educated in history – that there was a great feud between the elvish clans."

Thranduil chuckled.

"There are no clans, only kindreds. I am a Sinda, of the House of Oropher. The Sindar are the Teleri who settled in Beleriand, and for I was born in Doriath I am also Iathrim; my subjects are the Silvan, who are the Nandorin Teleri. We never sing of Valinor, the Land of the West, nor do we long for it, for we are of the Úmanyar, who set on the Great Journey, but never finished it. We never will. Our homes are the forests of Middle-Earth."

Thorin, who tried to keep up with all those names and titles, remembered now why he had hated history lessons as a young dwarrow.

"And what about Lady Galadriel?"

"She is a Ñoldo, of the House of Finarfin, and Calaquendi, for she prides herself on having seen the light of the Two Trees. She is kin to Fëanor Kinslayer, and came from Valinor to Middle-Earth, eager to build a realm of her own. All Evil of the First Age and the Years of the Trees came to be because of the Ñoldo, and we Sindar loathe them especially for the Second Kinslaying in Doriath. Their hand also showed during the Last Alliance. I would not be king, and my father would still live if not for the stubbornness and haughty pride of Gil-Galad, High King of the Ñoldor, for had he not dared my father and called upon his honor, many would still live. And Elrond is no better either, because he was his herald," Thranduil said bitterly, eyes glinting with tears. "What would I not give for my father to live and carry this burden of kingship, for which he always seemed to be so much more suited than me."

"So you're saying that you hate elves? That's something I can relate to," Thorin said dryly, ignoring that last comment for his own sake. Because honestly he wouldn't know what to do with a crying elf on his hands. Having one and the same almost dying for him months ago and bleeding out on him two weeks ago was enough.

"No, no. I do not hate them." Thranduil leaned against the table, bowing his spine like a great tree, and huffed out a resigned breath. "Do not listen to me, I am old and bitter. Galadriel is a noble and powerful woman, and a wise ruler, together with Celeborn. The same goes for Elrond, who is a most skilled healer and knowledgeable scholar. I dwell too much on things that are long past, and let it cloud my judgement of the present."

Thorin only snorted and waved a servant to bring them some ale. As soon as a mug was set in front of him, the Elvenking wrinkled his nose, but Thorin insisted on a toast.

"To the past," he proposed, but Thranduil shook his head.

"To the present."

Thorin laughed at him when he shuddered and grimaced at the bitter taste of the ale. In hindsight he should not have done that, because then the Elvenking called some of his own servants to bring them Dorwinion, and dared him to a drinking contest.

It turned out that millennia old elvish rulers had a higher alcohol tolerance than even a sturdy dwarf. Or maybe the wine had been spiked. It _had_ come from the Elvenking's personal stash after all. Yes, that must have been it. Thorin should call for a rematch, this time with witnesses.


	4. The Debt

**Author's Note:** I probably scared you guys away with that last chapter lol. Anyway, tomorrow's my 20th birthday, but since I don't know whether I will have time to post it then, I'm giving you this chapter as a little present a bit earlier. Love you guys!

This is the for me mandatory musical (not as in Broadway Musical, just the adjective of 'music') part of any story. Also a bit of a filler? A long filler anyway.

Enjoy!

-:-

A king's day work started early in the day and carried on for long hours until long past sunset. Thorin had always known that he would one day inherit his grandfather's title – after it had passed on to his father first of course. He had been prepared for this role since he was a very small dwarrow lad, receiving lessons in history, rhetoric, diplomacy, accountancy, Khuzdul, music and art, geology, and the crafts of mining and forging. But before he could reach full adulthood, Smaug came and cast them out of their own home. He had still been young, when Thrór was slain by Azog and Thráin vanished, never to be seen again. Even though uncrowned, without a kingdom to name his own and too young to rule, the dwarves of Erebor saw them as their king. He had led them to the Blue Mountains and built a new home for them, a new life they had lived for the past century now, but it was apparent that _leading_ and _ruling_ were entirely different things. There was much yet to learn and to pass along to Fíli, his heir apparent.

He often began his mornings by reading and responding to correspondence until Balin came to pick him up and drag him to the daily council meeting, which lasted until lunch. After lunch he sat with his advisors and Fíli and Kíli to discuss urgent matters, and then they handled the public audiences as a consortium, where Thorin's subjects could address their concerns and conflicts. Then, after dinner, he retired to his office again to do the day's paperwork. Usually he was tired enough to drop dead in his bed, but sometimes his thoughts were still racing and his fingers itched for a very specific exercise.

Thranduil's harp lay in its shallow case, pillowed by soft, deep green velvet that accentuated the maple wood's beautiful layered coloration, from which the moonstones blinked like pale eyes, or perhaps stars. To one who didn't look too closely it seemed as if it was still untouched, but there was never even the faintest layer of dust gathered on its casing. A small stool for its player to sit on was never far, as well as a small, soft piece of cloth, and a bowl for Thorin to wash his hands in. A few years ago he would have been rubbing at the stains of soot and dirt that gathered from his work at the forge, now there was dust and ink that gathered on his fingers over the course of the day.

Yes, much had changed, but the music swelling in his heart whenever he touched a harp was still the same. There was a special kind of magic in the solid weight of an instrument rested against the bow of his collarbone; gripping the tender strings demanded an impeccable balance between strength and tenderness; and the absolute peace that music brought to his mind, silencing all thoughts and filling it with emotions far grander than his own, emotions that had been passed on through generations, was indisputably calming.

The first few times he played his fingers felt clumsy and hurt afterwards from the friction and pressure. Yes, he had callouses from fighting and forging, but the tips of his fingers were actually quite delicate still. He had to readjust to this particular harp's dimensions as well, since he noticed slight differences in design. Maybe it was his imagination, but the strings felt further apart than usual, and the distances between the pedals were smaller than he remembered them, which made removing his heavy boots necessary.

To his complete shame he needed to relearn many of the songs and tunes he knew he'd been able to play without difficulty the last time he held a harp. Since dwarves did not write their music down as elves did, he had to ask his first court musician to perform them for him so he could reacquaint himself to the melodies and rhythms. Also his skill at playing off the cough had been lost after all this time, which saddened him the most.

Yes, there was much yet to learn, and sometimes he felt that the harp's brilliant voice and precision were lost on his minor talent, no matter how much his court musician applauded his progress and technique. Some nights the music had no calming effect on him because he was frustrated by his amateurish plucking, and he even considered sending the harp back. Mahal's beard, but that would probably mean war, since it had been a gift and the Elvenking hand-carved the thing himself. No, instead of doing that he would just have to get better at playing, so he could impress the elf next time he visited, whenever that would be.

Lately the correspondence between the Woodland Realm and Erebor and become more of a drawn-out conversation between Thranduil and Thorin, deviating from the objective, detached tone reports like this should bear. To be honest, it was probably Thorin's fault, since he inquired after Thranduil's wellbeing once, remembering Lady Galadriel's cryptic words about grief and friendship, and his own promise that he made on his coronation day.

Before that he had been sure that it was a scribe or a servant who did the actual writing, with Thranduil maybe dictating the text. After all, he had reason to believe that the small note he received months ago counted as a sample of the Elvenking's own handwriting – and they did not mach. At least they did not until after Thorin's personal inquiry, when the writing suddenly changed from a clear, blockish, almost rune-like style to the long strokes and elegant curls that matched the note and resembled the Tengwar script. The letters were also no longer signed as "_His Royal Majesty, Aran Thranduil Oropherion of the Woodland Realm_", but simply "_Thranduil_" instead. Thorin was secretly glad, because he had also grown tired of having to sign as "_Thorin II. Oakenshield of the line of Durin, King Under the Mountain and First Lord of the seven clans_" himself.

After a particularly long, exhausting day and a frustrating lesson from his court musician Thorin found no sleep. Restlessly, he polished Orcrist and its sheath, trying to find peace and solace in the monotonous movements. When this did not yield the expected results, he smoked several pipes of Bilbo's Old Toby tobacco on his balcony, and then resigned to already drafting his correspondence when the small hours of the morning brought him no prospect of sleep either.

That was when a soft hoot broke the silence, and after a rush of wind Thorin was left staring incredulously at the edge of his table, where a huge owl perched, a long roll of parchment bound to its leg. It tilted its head, and Thorin thought it bore an uncanny resemblance to Thranduil. When he continued to stare at it, it flared its wings and screeched once, before making a sound like a groan and loosening the silk ribbon that had bound the scroll to its leg.

"Tu-whoo," it warbled and nudged the roll of parchment with its claws.

"Am I dreaming or is an owl telling me to read my correspondence?" Thorin mumbled, shaking his head, but picked the scroll up and broke the familiar, green seal. It read as follows:

_Mae govannen,_

_I fare well – thank you for asking. Though I find that 'well' does not mean that much, and it is a set phrase anyways. No matter the circumstances or actual feeling, the answer always seems to be 'I am well'. Now I ask myself whether your question was a simple set phrase as well, or if you sincerely wanted to know the state of my being. If your inquiry was intended as the latter, I must confess that my answer was quite untrue. You see, 'well' does not even begin to describe my health, nor my state of mind; not even in the slightest. It is complicated though, and not to be discussed via written word. It is quite personal. I hope you understand._

_And how fare you? Royal blood does not a king make, as I find, and building a kingdom from the ruins of an old one strikes me as especially troublesome. Though I would daresay kinghood should become one such as you, and I do mean that in the best way possible._

_Regarding the matter of the Enchanted River I can only say that I will consider removing the spells infusing it, though I do not know if I would even be able to, should I come to the conclusion that doing so is the best course of action. Curses of this intensity and density are woven deeply into the forest itself, and might have become a part of it after all this time that they have been in place. Removing them might also have unknown side-effects. I will need to consult scholars and other practitioners on the matter._

_The bridge is repaired though, and some spare rafts were tied to both shores along with the boat and some lengths of elvish rope. Do not mention to anyone under any circumstance that I had to request it from Lady Galadriel. She is far too full of herself as it is. It is almost not worth the trouble, since she has to rub it in my face that she can bake real lembas bread, as Queen Melian once did, but that I cannot, nor could my late wife. Who needs lembas anyway, it tastes like rock flour. Not that I ever tasted rock flour, mind you._

_Speaking of trouble, Gandalf is meddling in the affairs of the Woodland Realm again, pestering my son and planting alarming ideas about travelling and seeing the world in his head; I think he has another scheme up his sleeve, and I do not like it at all, not if it means disturbing my only son and heir's hard-earned peace of mind. My own is far too fallible these days and Legolas asking about prophecies, sea-longing and the way to Mithlond does not help in the slightest. It is not right. He should not be capable of such longing, we are Úmanyar, but I find that hearing him speak of it greatly disturbs me as well. In a way I suppose you must have felt this way when you lived in the Blue Mountains – content and safe, but _longing_._

_I have not heard from Tauriel for some time either, and I find myself missing her greatly. She was one of the youngest in my Halls, you know? We old ones have grown lazy and slow, and since she has left everything seems to take enormous amounts of time. Not that it is something we have to worry about, but still. How is she? She and your nephew really seem to have bonded quickly, and I am happy for them. It is good the see that we have not corrupted the young with our bitterness and mistrust, though I would say we – and with that I mean exclusively you and me – are overcoming this slowly but steadily as well. I find myself granting you more trust than I do others I have known and liked for far longer. I hope you think the same? At least your letters indicate so, and I am glad for it. Animosity is such an exhausting and nonsensical thing._

_I think I have gone on for long enough now. I wish you a well-rested mind and lots of patience. And please do not murder you council, they do mean well._

_Thranduil_

Thorin felt a strange stretch of his lips as he put the letter down and realised that he was smiling. Surprisingly he felt like he didn't mind grinning like a silly tween dwarrow and kept the expression on his face through the hour he spent drafting a reply. Only the question after Tauriel's wellbeing he had to leave unanswered – she mostly avoided him, probably because she thought he did not approve of her. Well, how could he? She was a several centuries old immortal elf maid with nothing to name her own, while Kíli was the second in line to the throne, young, hot-headed and very much not immortal. There was much to discuss, should the two of them decide to take their relationship to the next level.

The owl softly hooted from time to time, but waited patiently for Thorin to finish so it could carry his letter back to its master. As reward Thorin fed it some of the bacon he got for breakfast. It thanked him by returning with another scroll around lunchtime, giving him an excuse to miss the meeting of his advisors. Fíli happily agreed to preside over it in his stead.

And so this was how their written conversation continued. At first Thorin was cautious and unsure about the familiarity that had somehow sneaked in between them. He reminded himself that Thranduil had left him and his people to starvation and homelessness. He reminded himself that he hated him. But somehow this slowly but gradually became a grotesque lie. Sometimes, when there was no immediate reply, he caught himself impatiently standing on the balcony, waiting for the owl with a few strips of bacon. In one of the letters Thranduil even voiced his concern about the bird apparently gaining weight, but how could Thorin not thank the faithful owl for its services?

Until one day there was no reply at all, or the day after, or the days after that. Two full weeks passed without a word from Thranduil, or indeed any news from the Woodland Realm. At first Thorin was confused, then worried, then angry, and in the end he was worried again. There had been no sign that Thranduil would soon have no time to write, or any indication of danger brewing in Mirkwood. There seemed to be no reason at all for this sudden silence. It made Thorin antsy and irritable, in turn worrying his nephews, Dís, Balin and his advisors.

More weeks passed, evening out his anxiousness to a resigned apathy. But then, one late evening, a servant announced the arrival of a group of elves from the Woodland Realm. Thorin perked up in his seat, dinner forgotten, and his family exchanged worried glances.

"Let them come forward," Thorin said, and the servant bowed obediently.

His thoughts raced. What could warrant this visit? Was Thranduil with them? What had happened? The tension coiled in his stomach until he felt like his dinner – fried chicken on boiled potatoes and white beans – was ready to come up again.

"Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm, Your Majesty," a servant called out, but the elvish prince was already rushing into the dining room.

"King Under the Mountain," he said and stood before Thorin, nodding curtly. "I need to discuss an urgent matter with you."

"Of course, follow me. Excuse me, Dís, I need to- …"

"Go on, brother. I will have a plate sent to your rooms," Dís cut him off and gave him a reassuring smile.

Thorin led the elvish prince to the adjoining sitting room, where a low fire created a vivid play of shadows and golden light, and while Thorin fit into this scene with his metal-adorned coat, dark leathers and heavy wool, Legolas still seemed to glow with his own light, silvery and ethereal.

"King Thorin, I must ask you to come with me."

"What?"

"I did not wish to alarm your family, but it is urgent. A matter of life and death, in fact."

Thorin's breath stopped, and he blinked, gaping like a fish.

"Slow down, elfling. Explain."

Legolas huffed out a breath, clenching and unclenching his hands.

"It is about my father. The king …" He shook his head. "There was something wrong even before the battle for Erebor, even before you and your Company passed through Mirkwood. He was … You would not understand."

"You are not explaining this very well."

"I will put it bluntly then: my father saved your life when he killed Azog, and now I am asking you to save him in return. Pay your debt, Thorin Oakenshield, and I will forgive you," Legolas all but growled.

"Forgive me for what?" Thorin asked, but the blood rushed in his ears. _Save him in return._ Was Thranduil dying? What had happened? Why did the prince think he of all people could help the Elvenking?

"Your ancestors kept my mother's necklace from us – the only piece of remembrance we had of her. You and your ancestors' gold greed are the reason my people live so isolated. It is your fault so many of my kin are dead now. It is your fault they saw the terror of war. Your nephew took Tauriel from us, my cherished friend and my father's protégée. You demanded much of my father's energy and time. A more malevolent mind would blame _you_ for what happened."

"And what _did_ happen?" Thorin snarled, ignoring the daring accusations, though the anger boiled in his stomach.

"It is complicated. But," Legolas cut in, before Thorin could protest. "But the result is that my father is fading. His body, his _hröa_, was weakened greatly during his fight with Azog, and his _fëa_ has been in a frail state for a long time now. I will not see him die, not now and not ever, if I have a say in it. Lord Elrond believes you will be able to help him ground my father's _fëa_ to the here and now."

"Why?"

"I do not care, but you are out only hope." Legolas fixed him with a hard, cold glare. "Will you come willingly or must I abduct you?"

Thorin snarled.

"Lead the way, elfling."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Reviews are greatly appreciated :)


	5. The Mirages

**Author's Note:** We're nearing the first climactic moment in the story, so hold on tight.

Enjoy!

-:-

Dís would probably laugh at him if she saw him having to steal one of his own ponies, concealed by a grey elven cloak and on his way to help his formerly sworn enemy. But as a matter of fact, it was no funny business at all. Thorin's heart was thumping nervously in his chest, beating against his ribcage, and the usually so stoic and unreadable elvish prince anxiously clenched his jaw until Thorin thought he would soon hear the crunching sound of teeth being ground to dust.

They took a less frequented path that did not curve over the hill Dale sat on first, but headed straight to Esgaroth's shores, and from there to the edge of the woods and the Forest Gate that stood there. Legolas and his four guards rode swift-footed, nimble horses, and Thorin could sense that the prince would have liked to gallop at full speed, but his Rohan pony was already going as fast as he dared without having to fear that it would collapse under him halfway on the road. Still, when they rode along the Long Lake's shore, Legolas impatiently leaned over and whispered something into the pony's ears that made it rear and run almost double its speed.

"I don't want to ruin my pony," Thorin growled between clenched teeth, sending a quick prayer to Mahal for the Rohan pony and its smooth, clean gallop, or he would get jostled really badly right now.

"She knows her own stamina far better than you do," Legolas only said, clipped and obviously troubled. Thorin once more wondered how bad the situation was – but it Thranduil really was dying, why call for him? He was no healer. What use was he to them?

His thoughts continued to race almost as fast as their horses until they passed the Forest Gate. As soon as they rode through, Thorin felt a crushing, overwhelming and oppressive force press on him – physically and mentally both. He let out a startled gasp and threw a glance at the elves, who averted their gazes, bit their lips or – in Legolas' case – clenched their jaws even tighter.

"What is this?" Thorin wheezed, clawing at his collar, desperate for air. His pony whinnied and slowed its gait. The sound echoed back at them, but at the same time something about the sonority was wrong. Everything but the noises they themselves made was muffled, as if they were in a bubble of sound, surrounded by utter silence. No leaf rustled or even moved, no birds chirped, no wind blew.

"My father's power," Legolas said, and his voice sounded … thin. As if he were far, far away. "He is connected to the forest, and it is suffering. His spells of illusion, dream and disorientation are … bleeding out. They are no longer under his control." He looked at Thorin intently. "Do not, under any circumstances, try to steer your pony off the path. There will be mirages trying to lure you into the woods. You will get lost, and not even we would be able to find you again."

Thorin nodded and gulped, tightening his grip on the reins. The tension in his body seemed to accumulate until he felt like he might snap. The trees looked like they wanted to pierce him, and the moonlight filtering through the leaves felt more like a disorienting swirl of too bright light than a soothing balm. His blood rushed in his ears, and his breath sounded like the pitiful wheezing of an old forge. It was just when he wanted to slow his pony down that he thought he heard a voice.

"Thorin?"

He looked at Legolas first, and then their guards, but clearly neither of them had said anything.

"Thorin, please …"

"Did you hear that?" Thorin asked, but his voice did not carry, and it resembled more the peeping of a scared mouse than his usual baritone. Legolas had apparently not heard him, but before he could call out to him again, the voice returned, sobbing and lamenting directly into his ears.

"Please," it wept, "help me, please."

"We should- …" he tried to say, but then the voice gained volume and rose until it surrounded him with a cry of pure agony. He was shouting too, maybe, or maybe that sound was the voice too, and he curled in on himself, pulling at his pony's reins until it reeled to a halt. Darkness and the piercing pain of the voice's suffering dripped down on him like tears, _tears_, there were _tears_ on his cheeks, and hands on his shoulders and elbows, dragging him down, down, down, the earth was so warm and it smelled like … like …

"Thorin?"

He looked up and stared at the brightly glowing figure standing in front of him. Amazed he got up on his knees, taking it the appearance. The light was almost too bright to see anything clearly, but he saw that it wore no shoes, and that it had long hair that moved to a breeze he did not feel.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Oh, don't you recognise me?" It took a step forward, and the light dimmed, revealing its face and especially a pair of amused, sky blue eyes.

"Thranduil," Thorin breathed and got up on his feet. "I thought … Legolas said you were …"

The elf made a shushing gesture and shook his head.

"Let us not speak of it. Follow me instead, I must show you something."

"But …" he tried to protest, and as he tried to look for Legolas and their guards behind him, a hand gripped his chin and made him look at Thranduil and into his glinting eyes.

"Look at me, Thorin." A concerned look flitted across his features. "You must not stray too far from me, or you could get lost."

"Legolas said not to stray from the path," he insisted, trying to turn away again, but the fingers on his chin suddenly turned cold and gripped harder. He started to tremble, and his heart beat furiously in his chest. Something was not right. "The path is this way, is it not?"

"No, it is not. Trust me, I know this forest far better than you do." Thranduil laughed. "You fell, and lost your orientation. It is this way. I know."

"Where are the others, should you not- …"

"They will find their way home on their own, do not worry. Come now, follow me. And don't look back."

Thorin suppressed a shudder then Thranduil let him go, his fingerprints having left numb spots, but refused to move when the mirage – and he was now sure that it was nothing but an illusion – took a step back.

"Are you not coming?" Thranduil asked, a fey sharpness in his voice and eyes.

"No." Thorin shook his head, both to emphasise negation and to clear his head. Slowly, sounds started to return. Voices calling for him, hoof beats. The mirage only smiled and transformed, suddenly showing him Kíli's form, hunched and beaten, an arrow stuck through his thigh.

"Uncle, we have to go – we need to help the others!"

"No," he repeated. "You are not Kíli. There is no one in that direction."

Not-Kíli's face contorted in wild anger, and suddenly he was a huge bear with claws as long as Thorin's forearm and a roar as loud as a thunderbolt. It stood on its hinds and struck with one massive paw, but Thorin sent a quick prayer to Mahal and closed his eyes, hoping that the illusion would not be able to harm him. A blow to his chest sent him tumbling to the ground, and he felt his breath leave his lungs in a rush of air.

"Daro!" someone shouted, and suddenly the roaring stopped. "Ego!"

Groaning, Thorin picked himself up and faced Legolas, who stood before him with a grim frown on his beautiful face. The bear had disappeared without a trace.

"You resisted," the elvish prince said.

"Indeed."

"What made you realise it was not real?"

Thorin hesitated, meeting the prince's piercing gaze with caution.

"It shifted forms three times," he offered after some contemplation. Legolas lifted an unimpressed brow.

"Very well," he said, but it was clear that the answer had not satisfied him. "Come now, we must make haste. With every hour the forest becomes more hostile, until it will be too dangerous even for us to travel in it."

"And you think I will … do what exactly?" Thorin grumbled, climbing back on his pony's back.

"Those who are with my father now and me as well – we are too familiar. My father suffers from a confusion between dream, memory and present. He cannot distinguish our current selves from the things he remembers of us or sees in his feverish dreams." Legolas fixed him with a contained glare. "Our hope is that you, who do not share much history with him, can clear his mind for long enough that Lord Elrond may heal his body, so that his _fëa_ may recuperate as well."

And with that the elvish prince spurred his horse on, further along the path and further into the menacing darkness of the forest. This time Thorin kept his eyes trained on the elvish prince's back, blending out all strange noises and flickers of imagination in the corners of his eyes. From time to time voices called out to him – Bilbo, Dwalin, Glóin, Dís, and many others – but he ignored them steadfastly, confident that they were not real. It was hard though, because they called out in distress, asking for help, crying and cursing, and it tore at Thorin's heart. It was a cruel and malicious magic, and he wondered how Thranduil could be responsible for such madness and hurt. And then he wondered what incredible agony he must be suffering to cause this, and that was almost worse than the mirages, because he knew those were not real – but that Thranduil's suffering on the other hand was very real.

Time passed strangely in the forest, so he had no idea how long they had been travelling already, when finally the narrow bridge that crossed over the Forest River and led to the gate to Thranduil's Halls came in sight. Unlike last time, they did not swing open like by an invisible hand, but Legolas had to push them open himself, wheedling and coaxing them, convincing them of their good intentions to let them in. So this was another spell of Thranduil's that had gone haywire with suspicion and confusion.

"You can leave your pony with our horses," Legolas told Thorin as he handed his horse's reins to another elf, who then led the animals away.

After that followed the same winding bridges without railings that Thorin knew from when he and his Company had been led before Thranduil. This time, however, Legolas did not lead them to the platform where the antlered throne stood, but further up, almost to the ceiling of the cavern, where clean, golden sunlight filtered through. Judging by the angle of the sunrays they must have travelled the whole night, and morning had already come and passed as well.

"Edro," Legolas said as they arrived in front of a wide, wooden door that was adorned with the carven symbol of antlers entwining until they resembled boughs. The door swung open at the prince's command, allowing them entrance to what Thorin assumed where Thranduil's private quarters.

The same amber and golden tones predominated the first room they entered – a sitting room, presumably – though the upholstery also displayed deep red and green features, interwoven with silver and golden embroidery. As soon as they entered the next room, a living room with cushioned sofas, divans and an open balcony, Thorin felt the same kind of oppressive presence of dread and darkness he had felt in the forest and that dimmed the elegance and comfort of the chamber.

"This way," Legolas said and put his hand on a tall, but relatively slim door that was carved to look like the withered bark of an ancient oak.

Silence and twilight darkness met them as they entered. The air smelled of resin and something else, something bitter and sharp. Thorin squared his shoulders and fought not to let any of his conflicted emotions show on his face as Lord Elrond approached him.

"Finally," the Elf-Lord said, fixing a grave stare on Thorin. "The hour is late and our need is dire. Thranduil must not succumb to his weariness now – just as you were meant to survive the battle for Erebor, King Under the Mountain."

"So that is why he saved my life?" Thorin asked bluntly, voicing his displeasure only by furrowing his brow. Was this some elvish plan? Why had Thranduil not told him so when he had asked him for the reason why he saved Thorin?

"Partly," Elrond murmured cryptically and led him to the large bed behind him. In the dim light and burrowed under layers of fur and heavy velvet coverlets, Thorin almost couldn't see the outline of the Elvenking's body. Only his drawn, pale face was visible, framed by long, thin hair that almost looked grey in this light. His eyes were closed, but the movement behind his eyelids told Thorin that he was dreaming vividly.

"It is not natural for an elf to sleep like this," Legolas stated from somewhere near the door.

"Elves, whose bodies are stronger and more enduring than those of mortal folks, rest their minds and souls in the open contemplation of nature's beauty – they never close their eyes, unless wounded greatly or weakened by world-weariness," Elrond added.

"Speak clearly, elf. What does it mean?"

"It means, Master Dwarf, that there is something terribly wrong with Thranduil. It means that his strength is greatly diminished, and that he is on the verge between life and death."

Contemplating the Elvenking's vulnerable features, Thorin crossed his arms and huffed.

"I am only here to repay my life-debt. Tell me what to do, so I can return to my family and my kingdom."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> What do you think? I also posted a picture corresponding to this chapter on my tumblr, just remove the spaces: llaevateinn .tumblr post / 105781540109 / for-chapter-5-of-doubt-and-debts-thranduil


	6. The Anchoring

**Author's Note:** Text in italic represent memories and dreams. Hold on tight, it gets confusing and the pace is fast. That's why I told myself that a shorter chapter won't hurt. I want to make sure everyone gets this, so that I can rewrite things if necessary. I'm ambiguous about the rating here, since I'm planning on some smut - to be on the safe side I raised it to M. If anyone is bothered by this bc they don't want to read smut, I'll announce the relevant scenes so you could skip them hopefully.

Some Sindarin translations and other explanations:

ion nín - my son  
>Nauglamír - a very beautiful and famous necklace the dwarves made<br>Urulóki - fire-drakes  
>Istari - the wizards, Saruman, Gandalf etc.<p>

Enjoy!

-:-

Apparently it was all very simple – in theory. Lord Elrond would chant some elvish song, probably some hocus-pocus, place his hands on Thorin's and Thranduil's foreheads and do something he called 'anchoring'. If he understood the imagery and weird philosophy it would help Thranduil's … spirit? Was that what a _fëa_ was? It would help his spirit to find back to his body and accept its limits, its gravity of sorts, and the sufferings that bodies and life brought with them. How that was going to happen and why in Mahal's name they needed him to do it did not concern Thorin, he only wanted to repay his debt. So he only asked for some water and a light breakfast before he was ready to start this 'anchoring'.

While he was eating his meal in another room they apparently aired Thranduil's chamber and let in some light, because he suddenly realised that what he had assumed was an atrium of sorts actually opened up on either sides of the room, revealing an astonishing view on the Forest River rushing down into the Halls on one side and on the other it revealed the vast stretch of Mirkwood with the pale outlines of the Emyn Duir mountain range at the horizon.

In this light the contrast between Legolas, Elrond and Thranduil was painfully visible. The two healthy elves practically glowed, standing tall and flawless as marble statues. The Elvenking on the other hand could have passed for a mortal man with particularly chiselled features, but of no extraordinary origin.

Lord Elrond stood behind a cushioned seat that had been placed beside the bed and gestured for Thorin to sit in it.

"Legolas told me that you encountered mirages in the forest," he Elf-Lord began, and he nodded. "This will feel similar to you then. You will see memories and dreams intertwined, and you must dispel them – reveal them for the past or the lie they are. I must warn you however, as some of those images might very well be repulsive, horrifying or deeply emotional."

"I'll handle it," Thorin growled impatiently, forcibly keeping himself from fidgeting in his seat.

"Very well. Try to breathe deeply and regularly, this will hurt."

"Get on with it already."

Lord Elrond sighed, but placed a cool hand on Thorin's forehead, thumb grazing the line of his brow. His other hand reached out to Thranduil, until Elrond acted like a connection between the elf and the dwarf. When the Elf-Lord started to recite the spell needed for the anchoring, Thorin suddenly felt a shift, as if he were seeing two pictures at the same time. Confused, he blinked and tried to shake off an oncoming headache, but the hand on his forehead clamped down and held him in place.

-:-

_The voice of a young child, singing; ivy, moss and vines growing on a stone wall, stretching, unfolding leaves; a solid, warm hand on his shoulders._

_"Very good, ion nín."_

-:-

Thorin gasped, clenching his eyes shut, trying to fend off this strange vision, but it was in his head, he could not- …

-:-

_"Uncle Thingol, uncle Thingol!"_

_"Hello there, little sprout."_

_The comfort and warmth of a lap and a loving hug. Gentle, grey eyes, framed by long, golden hair. A blinding glow, a jewel, the Arkenstone, no, no, a Silmaril, the same, they are the same they hurt, they twist, they brinG FORTH DARKNESS AND EVIL AND DEATH AND MURDER! Take it away, don't let it hurt them, he loved them so much, he should have seen- …_

-:-

"Let him, the connection is solidifying."

"But they are hurting, you are torturing them!"

"Trust me, Legolas, this is necessary."

"I don't like it."

"I am sorry. Neither do I."

-:-

_"What are the dwarves of Nogrod doing here? Have we no longer good relations with the dwarves of Belegost?"_

_"They will fit the Nauglamír to hold the High-King's Silmaril."_

_"Thranduil, meet Njál, son of Njord. Apprentice of Askr, son of Alfr, who crafted the Nauglamír."_

_Red hair, red as fire, red as blood and ember, ember and ash. He has skin roughened and calloused by work, his touch is steady and sure and confident. His gazes kindle and coax, his kisses are sweet and his lovemaking passionate. He has never felt like this, never has anyone felt like this, so bright and wonderful. The flame sears as it creates, his words are strong, pure things, and he believes him, he believes that he is the most beautiful thing in the world, more beautiful than any metal or jewel, more beautiful than a Silmaril. It was not a lie, was it? Even when he lied, he told the truth._

_Gold-greed, goldsickness, dragonsickness, the Silmaril changes them all. He changed him. It was his fault, he should not have trusted him. He should not have trusted the fickle, short-lived mortal heart – even if he loved it more than anything._

_"You are honourless!"_

_And suddenly Njál was Thorin, and Thorin saw himself, and he knew then that he was seeing this with Thranduil's eyes – that he was feeling what he had once felt._

_"You! Lack all honour!"_

_Hands were gripping the mithril torc around his throat, pulling and choking, murder in his ember eyes, but Thorin knew they were not dying, he knows he never did this. His own eyes were blue like the sea, not black as coal. Njál was not Thorin, there had been love then, but here was no love now, or was there, was there love, had there ever been love? But the image shifted, and there was blood on Njál's hands – and it was his own._

_Thorin stepped away and watched Thranduil, so young, so warm and soft, not yet sharpened by age and experience – he watched him cry over his lover's cold, bloodied corpse, the blade that had delivered the blow still in his trembling hands._

_"He should not have died," Thranduil screamed. "I should have seen it, I should have saved him."_

_"But you saved me," Thorin said, and their bodies dissolved._

-:-

"What is happening?"

"The anchoring … I think it is working."

"Elbereth Gilthoniel … Praise the Valar."

"Don't feel too safe yet."

"There is much yet for Thorin to see."

-:-

_Dragonfire, burning and melting, agonizing pain and rippling heat. Spears raised, swords clashing, the thunderous roar of a beast. Black, enchanted arrows whistling through the air, not enough, not enough. Dragon! Du bekâr! Du bekâr! Flames blazing in the night, or maybe flames blazing across armour; flames and molten stone, molten bone. Thorin screamed, or maybe Thranduil screamed._

_"Smaug!" they screamed. "Glaurung and Ancalagon and the Urulóki!"_

_Searing pain, and they lay on the ground, which vibrated with the dragon's roaring – the dragons' roaring, and they could not feel their left arm nor their left shoulder and they could not see with their left eye._

_"This is why you did not help," Thorin said, detaching himself as Thranduil writhed in agony, bone and ash and blood on his destroyed face. "You were afraid."_

-:-

"Hold him down, hold him down!"

"Do not let the connection break, at any cost!"

-:-

_A tent, the evening before a battle, fear in his heart. He knew what the next day would bring, and it was nothing but death and blood. He knew he was going to lose everything he lived and breathed for. This was the last day of his freedom._

_"Let me go. Adar, let me take your place. Let me die in your stead. This charge will kill us all."_

_Blue-grey eyes, a warm hand on his shoulder._

_"You have a future, ion nín. For me there is only the past. Let me have this. Let me do this for you – promise me …"_

_"I will," he said, before the words fell, before it was final._

_And then there was the confusion of battle, the stink of dead orcs, man-sweat, desperation and pain. He was numb and deaf, barely standing, but all he saw was the banner of Greenwood the Great falling, torn to pieces by trolls and orcs and goblins and wargs. Then the green and silver banner shifted, melting into a Durin blue, and the body lying in the bloodied mud was not that of Oropher, but that of Thorin himself._

_"Why did you not let me protect you?" Thranduil cried as he clutched the corpse's head, silver-gold hair, black-silver hair, both and neither, and Thorin understood._

_"This is why you saved me."_

-:-

"Wait, let him! It seems to be helping."

"I don't know how much longer I can keep up the connection."

"As long as you can. It has to be enough."

"I know, Legolas. I know."

-:-

_There was an elf maiden, a daughter of the former river elves. Her hair was like honey and her eyes like the Forest River, and he loved her, only it was the love of a friend, a brother, a comrade-in-arms. She loved him like this too, and it was enough to compel her to share his burden with him and become his wife and queen, and her name was Celonwen – maiden of the river._

_She was his friend, his only comfort and the silk to his venom. Mother of his beloved son. Captain of the Forest Guard. A brave, fierce warrior, and lover of stars. Diamonds, she said, were the stars' tears, and she always wore bracelets and a necklace of silver steel and diamonds._

_"A caravan disappeared," she said, her slender, strong hand combing his unbraided hair. "We dispatched it to Rhosgobel, to where the brown Istari took up residence."_

_"Cloth, honey, pots and tools," he recalled. "Stolen, you think?"_

_"The woodsmen would never attack one of our caravans and I don't know who else there is with this kind of intimate knowledge of the Road."_

_The hand was suddenly gone and he – they? – stood on the Forest Road, surrounded by blackened and sick trees, and the sight of the bodies littering the floor, torn and bloodied, tore his heart into pieces with anguish._

_"There are large spider-webs further south, like the product of some spawn of Ungoliant. We must strike before they spread further." Celonwen touched her diamond necklace. "I will lead the attack."_

_His heart bled, but he let her go. She was strong, and able. She would return, he thought._

_But he should not have let her go. He should have kept her close and safe, by his side forever._

_She lay on the floor, laid to rest on rotten leaves that once were green, her beautiful river eyes open and frozen forever, and Thranduil cradled her cold body to his chest, alone, utterly and truly alone, now that his only friend had gone._

_He saw the necklace, broken and shattered, lying on the blackened earth, glinting like fallen tears._

_He handed it to Thrór, who promised to repair it, and when he was shown the result of dwarven craft, he felt like he could breathe again. Celonwen would have loved to know that her necklace was more beautiful than ever, and he would cherish it and her memory until Middle Earth crumbled beneath his fingers and he was faded to a mere ghost, but the necklace would still shine like the eternal stars in the night time sky, and Celonwen would truly be immortal._

_But then the chest it rested in snapped shut and it felt like she had just died all over again._

_He should not have trusted them. Not with this._

_And Thorin wept as he saw through Thranduil's eyes how his younger self only stared in confusion. One word, and everything would be different now._

_It was his fault._

-:-

"Is it over?"

"They are waking up! Quick, bring water and food, and get Nestadren!"

"Almost there, my Lord."

"Bless Elbereth. Bless Lord Elrond."

-:-

Thorin woke up to a tickling sensation in his nose that made him want to sneeze. It smelled of pine and honey, but that was not what was tickling him. He had his face burrowed in something soft and silky, and it moved like a living being.

"Mahal," he groaned and lifted his head, blinking sluggishly. A wave of nausea hit him and he moaned.

"Your Majesty? Please remain lying down, it will pass."

Something moved under him though, and he rolled off of it, promptly falling on the floor. The jostling sent flashes of pain through his head, adding to the queasiness that plagued his stomach.

"What is the meaning of this?" someone he, they, who asked? Thorin clung to the side of the bed, for it was a bed he had fallen off, peering over the mattress.

"Thranduil?"

Then he remembered. The anchoring. All those illusions and memories and fears. His eyes widened, when he met the Elvenking's gaze, formerly set into a drawn, pale face, but now there was blue-hot fire, and _rage_.

"You saw," the elf whispered, a storm contained in a body too small to hold the lightning and the ice and the wind. "You know."

"Thranduil, you must re-…"

"Guards!" the Elvenking shouted suddenly, startling everyone in the room, but his eyes were still trained on Thorin. Like ghosts two sentries appeared, awaiting their king's instructions. "The king would like to return to his mountain. And Lord Elrond will need his steed now, since he is leaving."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

One sentry gripped Thorin's upper arm, hauling him onto his feet, but he struggled against the elf's iron grip, still returning Thranduil's gaze.

"I have repaid my debt, Elvenking," Thorin rasped. He would not need nor accept gratitude. He had been saved, and he saved in return.

"There was no debt. Or at least none that you owed me," Thranduil only said, watching as Thorin was dragged out of the room. The glow had returned to his skin and contrasted with the ruby red bed sheets and his silvery hair.

"We are even now!" Thorin shouted, just before the door slammed shut on a silent command.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I know this was probably very confusing. It's supposed to be like that though, since it's memories and dreams, and Thorin is in Thranduil's head and doesn't have all the facts. Especially the dialogues, name-dropping etc. If anyone's confused, tell me and I'll try to explain.

* * *

><p><strong>EDIT: To Guest who said they were confused, here is a short explanation of the most important facts:<strong>

I hope you see this, and I don't know what exactly you're confused about, but in short Thorin saw some of Thranduil's most painful memories and this was in order to lessen Thranduil's pain and to make Thorin understand Thranduil a bit better. 3 instances are very important: Njál, a dwarf with whom Thranduil was in love with during his youth, had goldsickness and tried to kill Thranduil, but Thranduil killed him in self-defense. Secondly, he saw his father die in battle (War of the Last Alliance). Thirdly, his wife (here I name her Celonwen) died and he blames himself. I hope this clears things up a bit.


	7. The Apology

**Author's Note:** This chapter has finally some positive tones to it ... Yay! Chapters might come a bit slower from now on. I'm very busy atm, and also the chapters I'm currently working on are getting longer and longer.

Some Khudzul words will appear in this chapter, marked in **bold.** The translations, taken from the English-Khuzdul dictionary by the Dwarrow Scholar are:

**iraknâtha** - niece  
><strong>irak'adad <strong>- uncle

And to the guest, who said they were confused ... I'm really sorry but I couldn't answer you directly bc you're not registered, so please go to the bottom of the last chapter, I put a paragraph there to explain the most important facts. This is just in case you hadn't seen it already.

Enjoy!

-:-

Back in Erebor Thorin received a massive scolding from Dís. Apparently everyone had been worried, and at the assumption that Thorin had been abducted by prince Legolas the council even considered military measures against Mirkwood. He assured her and his noblemen that he had gone voluntarily and that he had been safe at all times – a blatant lie, and he saw it in Dís' storm-blue eyes that she knew – but he never told her what the elves had wanted from him.

Over the course of the next few weeks Fíli and Kíli made a game of guessing what it was. Their most ridiculous theories were: Thorin had been abducted and was now replaced by an elf in disguise; the continuation of the peace treaty between Mirkwood and Erebor required him to take part in a cannibalistic ritual; Thorin and Thranduil secretly had an affair and the Elvenking had given birth to their offspring; or Thorin just performed a cleverly planned assassination.

Of course these theories were all completely ridiculous – but the ritual-theory hit a bit too close to home to Thorin's liking, though it had thankfully not entailed anything as depraved as cannibalism. He remained steadfast though and even resisted the joined investigative power of an angry/worried Dís and an exasperated/worried Balin. Even Dwalin tried to get information from him, and if there was anything Thorin and Dwaling both knew he couldn't do, it was spying.

He was more careful in the wording of his correspondence with Mirkwood, and always opened the letters that no longer came by owl in private, scanning them for suspicious content. But he should not have worried. The handwriting had converted back to the blockish penmanship of Thranduil's scribe, and all traces of amity disappeared like they never existed. Sometimes Thorin re-read old letters, just to remind himself that it had been different once.

Whatever it was that irked Thranduil so about this anchoring business, his arrogance and the ridiculously childish behaviour almost made Thorin hate him again. Only almost though, since he could not forget what he had seen, as much as he wanted to. Instead he began to do research on what he had been shown, either trying to prove or disprove these visions' accuracy.

Njál, son of Njord had indeed been a goldsmith's apprentice in Nogrod and lived around the year 500 in the First Age several millennia ago. Records counted him as fallen in the Battle of the Thousand Caves, a dispute between elves and dwarves about a necklace named Nauglamír, which contained a Silmaril. He apparently had a brother, Nafni, a jeweller, who married a woman from Moria and settled there. Njál himself had not been married.

Those were the facts anyway.

Further digging unearthed a smudged, but still quite well-preserved copied print that was only perhaps a few decades old. However, it was dated from a year that fit and showed a dwarf named Njál with lightly shaded hair – so it was possible he had red hair – that was bound to a topknot. He also had a long, narrow beard tamed by large beads. His strong forehead and broad jaw were an image of attractiveness – at least measured by dwarvish standards. What Thranduil had seen in him once upon a time Thorin could not tell, because he was fairly certain that elves did not particularly like hairy chests or big noses. Or maybe Thranduil was an exception in that sense.

When Dís came into his office one afternoon, a worried frown on her face and carrying a tray with tea and biscuits and he had no way of hiding the print lying on his desk, he knew he was doomed.

Dís used her uncanny skills of mother- and sisterhood, and gave him a piercing stare while simultaneously pouring tea into a delicate cup.

"So," she said and sat in Thorin's office chair, blowing over the steaming liquid and eyeing the print. "Do I need to know something?"

Thorin groaned and rubbed his forehead.

"It's not what it looks like."

She only raised a beautifully curved eyebrow.

"That's Njál, son of Njord." He sighed and leaned against his desk. "And he's stone dead. Has been, for literal Ages."

Now she frowned.

"Is he an ancestor of ours? On mother's side?"

"I don't know. Could be that Fíli and Kíli have some very distant relation to his family through Víli, since they're both Firebeards from Ered Luin. But that's not why I researched him."

"So why did you? I thought you hated history."

"I do, but …"

"Look." Dís sighed and set her teacup on Thorin's desk. He discreetly checked for wet stains, but Dís was nothing if not precise. She would never compromise his workspace like that. "I don't know what happened to you in Mirkwood, but if it made you do research voluntarily, then it's a matter of concern."

Thorin met his sister's gaze, pondering. For now, the only thing that kept him from telling Dís the truth was that on one hand he wasn't sure how she would react, and on the other hand he also knew that Thranduil wouldn't want him to gossip about it. But maybe telling a half-truth would get Dís off his back and would still not upset Thranduil, should he ever get wind of it.

"The Elvenking knew him," he sighed after a while. "He told me some things about this Njál, and … well, apparently he had goldsickness too. Or something similar."

Now Dís perked up, leaning forward in his office chair.

"Was Thranduil threatening you?"

"No, no, not … not really, no."

"So how did this Njál get cured then?" She pulled the print closer and regarded it thoughtfully.

"He didn't." _Thranduil killed him._ Thorin swallowed, remembering the desperation, the blood and the grief. "He died."

Sobered, Dís looked at him again.

"So no one's ever been cured of it before," she said, but she really meant: _Are you really healed? Will it come back, will you succumb to it again?_

"I don't think so," Thorin had to admit bleakly. Even he didn't know how he had bested the dragonsickness, only that the continuous pressure from the Company had had some influence, and especially his horror at what he had almost done to Bilbo. The kind hobbit had now forgiven him, but Thorin knew that he didn't deserve his friendship. But while he would never be able to forgive himself, he accepted the hobbit's decision to stay his friend, and cherished their bond all the more for it.

His relationship to Thranduil however, as it had shifted from a youngster's awe, to blank hatred, to reluctant acceptance, to something akin to friendship and now to nothing that could be labelled, sometimes left Thorin musing, pouring over their letters and trying to make sense of the elf. A creature so old and powerful, scarred and weary but still gracious was not easy to understand. He was not, as it seemed at first glance, unreasonable, but rather the reasons for his actions and behaviour lay so far back in time everyone but himself had forgotten them.

Which was why it shouldn't have surprised Thorin when a servant announced that two elves, among them King Thranduil, wished to see him. Slowly setting down the financial report of one of his mines, he sighed and gave the servant the order to let them in.

In through the massive door came, however, not Legolas or a faceless, nameless attendant of the Elvenking, but Tauriel, clad in the layered, heavy and simple clothing of a dwarf lass. The clothes were of course tailored to her much longer and slimmer frame, but the style, the embroidery and the fabric was unmistakable of dwarvish make. She had also plaited her hair in a dwarvish fashion, her braids signalling her warrior status, that she was taken, and that she was of no known bloodline. Two strands curved around her neck, almost recreating the image of a soft, feminine beard.

"My King," she said and curtsied, also in a dwarvish manner. Short and crisp, not too low, not too curt.

"Tauriel?" He blinked in surprise, taking in her form. It had been a long time since he'd last seen her, but surely not that long? He would have remembered her looking like this.

"Aran Thranduil came to visit me in my humble abode, my king, and asked me to show him to your office. My k- … The king wishes to speak to you, my liege."

Both slightly shocked and pleased, Thorin nodded.

"Thank you, **iraknâtha**. You can let him in."

A pleased blush painted her high cheekbones and she smiled brightly, apparently having understood the Khuzdul expression.

"Of course, my liege, at once."

She sped back out of his office and in again, this time with Thranduil by her side. The Elvenking still wore robes of pure white, and even a thin, airy veil concealed his features, atop of which sat his autumn crown of red leaves and berries like a drop of blood on a fresh layer of snow.

Thorin slowly rose from his seat to greet him, and received a graceful nod in return.

"You can leave now, **iraknâtha**. We will speak later. At dinner, if you wish."

"Thank you, my liege."

"Please," he directed a soft smile in her direction. "Call me Thorin or **irak'adad**. We are family after all, in all but blood and not yet by bond."

"I am honoured, **irak'adad**."

That Tauriel left with a bright grin and a happy spring in her step Thorin counted as a full success. He knew that so far he had neglected to integrate her into his family and Erebor in general, but today she had shown great initiative and willingness to adapt. He was impressed.

As soon as she had left, Thranduil lifted his veil and met Thorin's gaze with an empty, cold expression, which Thorin would have claimed to be his only one about a year ago. But today he knew the Elvenking to smile and frown first hand, and through memories he even knew him capable of expressing love and grief.

"What did you want to speak to me about?" Thorin asked after a while, when neither of them had moved nor said anything.

"I came here to apologize. And to explain."

"I am listening," Thorin said and leaned back in his chair, hands folded over his belly.

"It was rude to send you on your way like I did. That was unacceptable," Thranduil began and made a small gesture. "Please understand however the emotional strain I was under. I would daresay you know of what I speak."

"I do," Thorin murmured slowly.

"Still, instead of calling the guards and expelling you from my kingdom, I should have thanked you, even if neither your, nor Lord Elrond's help was wanted." He took a deep breath. "So … You have my gratitude, Thorin Oakenshield."

"As I said: it was merely a debt repaid."

"It was not a debt for you to repay," Thranduil disagreed. "Saving you was a matter of conscience. A chance to do what was right, a chance I had failed to seize before once already."

Thorin frowned and nodded, searching with one hand among the papers of his desk, until he found the print of Njál. Then he held it out to Thranduil.

"This is him?"

Wide-eyed, Thranduil balanced the worn piece of parchment on his fingertips, regarding the print silently. Thorin tried to read his expression, but it was like it was hewn from granite apart from a dark blush spreading over his cheeks – though whether from anger or shame or something entirely else Thorin could not tell.

"Where did you find this?" he only breathed, still staring. "Ah, it does not matter. I did not think any of these copies had survived the Ages."

"Really?" Thorin perked up. "Where is the original? Or the copperplate it was printed from?"

A strange tightness curled Thranduil's lips until they were drawn into a pained sneer.

"I have it. I made it."

A few seconds of breathless silence passed, before suddenly there was a ripping noise and Thorin incredulously stared at the ribbons of shredded parchment littering his desk.

"What did you do?" he growled and lunged to sweep the last piece from Thranduil's trembling hands. It showed one eye and the beginning of a nose, with remnants of the curve of an eyebrow.

"It was mine to keep, and mine alone. You did not have the right to see those memories, and you do not have the right to keep this copy," Thranduil snarled, gathering the snippets in his hands and rising like a furious storm. Before Thorin could stop him, he was by the fireplace and threw the pieces into the flames, where they crumbled and withered.

"Forget him," the elf breathed. "Forget everything. I will not have you know my shame."

"Shame?" Thorin spluttered, before a cold burning flame ate its way up his throat and he gripped the elf's elbow hard until he swivelled around to look at him. "Can you not see what you had? Yes, he had the dragonsickness. Yes, he hurt you. Yes, he tried to kill you even. But I know you loved him. Can you not see that instead?"

"What do you know of love? _My_ love no less?" Thranduil hissed, trying to free his elbow.

"We dwarves have destined soulmates – the other halves of our selves. _And I lost my One_." Thorin stepped back then, breathing heavily, quivering with the renewed feeling of loss and incompleteness. "He died … when Smaug came. And I am not ashamed to admit that I blamed you for his death. He could have been saved, if only … if only we had more arms to carry all the wounded. More healers. I knew it was Smaug who burned and eventually killed him – but I blamed you. And this is what I know of love," Thorin yelled waveringly, meeting Thranduil's wide-eyed stare. "You are right. I know nothing. Be humbled that you knew it, no matter how it ended."

"You must hate me, for everything," the Elvenking whispered and sank to his knees, sky blue eyes wide and brimming with welling tears.

"No. I do not hate you. I pity you. For the good you refuse to see. For the guilt you carry. For the pain that eats away at your heart." Thorin silently regarded the elf kneeling in front of him, looking lost and desperate, yet still strong and regal. At least his strength had been returned to him then, if not his hope.

"How must I earn your regard, o King Under the Mountain? What more must I give you, what more than my suffering, my pain, my shame and my failure? What more will you take before you see me as your equal?" Thranduil asked, reaching out and brushing cold fingers against the ridge of Thorin's knuckles.

He involuntarily twitched back at the freezing contact, only realising his error when a flash of pain crossed the elf's features.

"No," he grimaced. "There is nothing you must do."

"Nothing I _can_ do," Thranduil gasped, renewed tears glinting in his eyes. "Why must you haunt me so? You are the living and breathing reminder of my gravest of failures, and I cannot bear it. You spoke of debts, debts repaid; yet it is me who owes you more than I could ever give. I am guilty of your people's destruction, your One's death – there is nothing I can do to earn your forgiveness."

"There is nothing you must do," Thorin repeated, capturing the still outstretched hand between his fingers. The cold seeped into his flesh, and it reminded him of mithril – it looked so fragile, but there was incredible strength behind it. "What say you?" he whispered. "Can we forget past strife and faults, insult and injury, doubt and debts?"

"And begin anew?" Thranduil wrapped his free hand around Thorin's wrist, visibly torn between hope and uncertainty. "I do not know if I can forget and forgive my own misgivings – not be reminded of them whenever I see you or speak to you or read your letters."

"Promise me to try." And then he added with a smirk: "I do miss my owl friend."

A small smile curled up the corners of Thranduil's mouth and softened his eyes.

"I will try then. From one king to another?"

"No." Thorin intently kept Thranduil's gaze captured and his hand also. "From Thorin to Thranduil, and Thranduil to Thorin."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>What do you guys think? :)


	8. The Excursion

**Author's Note:** This chapter is slightly late, though it has various reasons. I was away on a short vacation, for one. Also, I accepted a Bachelor thesis, and there are exams coming up. Especially the thesis is stressing me out, and my anxiety is affecting my overall performance. I hope you all understand. Updates will be continue to come though.

There are some Khuzdul expressions in this chapter. The translations, taken from the English-Khuzdul dictionary by the Dwarrow Scholar are:

**irak'adad** - uncle  
><strong>'amad<strong> - mother

Enjoy!

-:-

After his enlightening conversation with Thranduil, Thorin invited him to dinner with his family and Tauriel, but the Elvenking declined, claiming exhaustion. He did however agree to a more thorough tour around Erebor. Before Smaug, Thrór had only ever allowed him to see the main halls and the market, but he seemed curious about the artisanal districts and the living quarters, so Thorin promised to cancel his small council meeting before lunch in order to show Thranduil around personally. They were, after all, trying to start anew.

After Thranduil had glided around a corner, veil back in place, Thorin mused about their exchange on his way to the royal dining room. Considering all that had happened, a clean, new start seemed reasonable, but would it even be possible? They couldn't very well erase their memories or feelings, which lay the ground for their actions. It was a necessary step towards long-lasting and sustainable peace between their realms, so Thorin hoped that their little experiment would bear fruit. They had seen what evil could summon, and only a united north could stand against it, with Erebor, Esgaroth, Dale and the Woodland Realm as political equals and true allies. And the foundation of this were good relationships between the rulers. Since Thorin and Bard had already put aside all strife and now coexisted cordially, and the new Master of Laketown looked to Bard in matters of greater matters, only the Woodland Realm remained. As unlikely as a friendship between a dwarf and an elf seemed, circumstances and their decisions during the last year had certainly improved relations, which were also visible in trade, bureaucracy, politics and industry. So, yes, they had to at least try, and tomorrow they would begin.

At dinner, he had to ban all thoughts of politics and kingship, since his sister insisted on keeping family-time strictly apart from their royal duties. Fíli, as always, sat to his right and attentively listened to every word Thorin said. Dís, opposite of him, in turn kept an eye on everyone. Kíli and Tauriel, who sat on the other end of the table, practically glowed with happiness, and Thorin could not keep himself from regarding them with some jealousy. The young ones made overcoming prejudices and boundaries look so easy, while the old ones struggled and tangled themselves in history long past that didn't even concern them. Perhaps he could learn from them.

He started a conversation about the grove Tauriel planted somewhere on the southern flank of the mountain, and where she grew different kinds of trees as a test field, so they could later apply her findings to the restoration of the forest that once had grown where Smaug's terror had left a barren desolation around Erebor. While she was no expert on forestry, she apparently consulted with experts in Thranduil's Halls, and also acquired seeds, saplings and tools from them. So far they had made little progress, since they had only just started, but it looked promising.

Dís, as he noticed, kept a wary eye on him during the whole meal. She had probably heard that Thranduil was in Erebor on an unofficial visit and either suspected unsavoury business, or she feared a falling-out between them. He did not comment about anything regarding the Elvenking, except that he – only once they had all eaten, of course – announced to cancel the small council meeting the next day due to business with Thranduil.

"I could preside over it again for you, **irak'adad** – I can write you a report," Fíli offered enthusiastically.

"Thank you, Fíli, but as good as your reports are I daresay that the king's advisors would rather advise their king directly. They will understand that this business cannot wait."

"Yes, Thorin."

He patted his older nephew on his back then, and offered him an affectionate smile.

"Why don't you take your mother to Dale tomorrow? It is market day, and I'm sure you would both enjoy the merriment and the variation. Take a break and enjoy yourselves. It is your birthday soon, and I will not have it that my heir overwork himself when he should prepare to celebrate," Thorin laughed and caught Dís' exasperated, but amused and thankful gaze.

"Yes, Fíli, why don't you help me with my purchases? I really need to get out more anyway, even we dwarves cannot be cooped up inside a mountain forever, no matter how big and beautiful it is!"

"Of course, **'amad**, I would be happy to," Fíli smiled and leaned over the table to give his mother a kiss on her cheek.

Thorin leaned back then, content that his plan had worked out just as he wanted. With his heir and Dís gone, and Kíli and Tauriel occupied with each other and the orchard, his privacy for the next day was almost assured. Now he only needed to get Balin and Dwalin off his back, and he would be able to spend time alone with Thranduil, away from judging eyes or influences.

In order to get Balin out of the picture, he simply requested a detailed report on all the courtly decisions he and his advisors had made so far – statistics, protocol, paragraphs from the law and everything. He really did need such a report, but he made the poor old dwarf believe it hurried, so he promised to start working on it right the next morning.

Dwalin was even easier to lure away by asking him to check on their border patrols. His first royal commander of Erebor of course immediately loved the idea of harassing inexperienced recruits, and made plans to leave early the next day.

When everything had panned out perfectly, Thorin retired to his private chambers and prepared for bed, in his mind already planning where he would take Thranduil and how to impress him to most. By the time he fell asleep, he felt confident that he could convince the elf of the dwarves' cunning, skill and diversity. And if he even dreamed of a cold hand in his and sky blue eyes widening in wonder, it was certainly a happy dream.

-:-

Thorin – coming straight from the council meeting – was clad in his royal Durin blue coat, which was adorned with bear fur and held closed by a broad steel belt, but his brow was free of his crown. He had brushed and oiled his long hair and his still re-growing beard, and had redone his braids so he hoped he looked impressive. Still slightly nervous, he knocked on the door to Thranduil's guest chamber. Only two handpicked guards – chosen for their loyalty and confidentiality – accompanied him, in order not to intimidate the Elvenking.

The door then swung open to reveal Thranduil, still dressed in brilliant white, though this time they were not sweeping robes, but a short cape, trousers and soft slippers instead of riding boots. He, too, did not wear his crown, and the veil was gone as well. Instead, he adjusted brown leather gloves on his hands.

"Thorin," he said and gave him a small smile.

"I hope you are well-rested and have enjoyed your breakfast," Thorin replied a bit hastily, having prepared this sentence after long contemplation.

"I am, and I did. The cherries and grapes were especially delightful. I did not think dwarves enjoyed fruit, but apparently I was wrong."

Blushing, Thorin remembered his own breakfast of fried potatoes, mushrooms, sausage, white beans and bacon, and only made a non-committal sound in his throat.

"Where will we go first?" Thranduil asked eagerly.

"I thought we could start with the living quarters, since they will be most active and interesting now, and as we pass by some of the mines we could finish our tour in the artisanal district, so we can observe how gems and other products of our mines get worked into pieces of art and beauty."

„I see you have thought this through. Very well, I trust your guidance."

Pleased, he offered his elbow to Thranduil, who gently hooked his hand under Thorin's arm. As he let the elf through the wide and tall tunnels that led further into the mountain, he pointed out some structural curiosities, dwarvish art or told some anecdotes about his and his siblings' childhood. Especially the latter seemed to catch the elf's attention, and Thorin even managed to make him laugh a bit when he told him that he once had to chase a very young Dís along these long tunnels, because she had refused to eat her vegetables.

"She does not strike me as the rebellious or roguish one," Thranduil remarked, but hesitated visibly, when Thorin fell into a plaintive silence. "I did not mean to wake sorrowful memories. Forgive me."

"No, it is … Frerin, our brother, he … Before he died she was like this. Always getting into trouble. A girl with grass stains on her ceremonial skirts, soot under her unkempt fingernails, and hair like a woolly pig." Thorin sighed, trying to fend off the memories. "I suppose she felt her importance as a princess, as the heiress of Durin, when it became clear that I would never have heirs, and especially after Frerin … had gone. She took on those responsibilities as she did her little adventures though. She is still one of the bravest people I know, perhaps only second to Bilbo. They are very alike in that respect."

Thranduil hummed and pulled his hand from Thorin's gentle grip to rest it on his shoulder.

"She is an admirable woman. I would like to become acquainted with her."

"You can," Thorin chuckled. "I am quite certain she feels similarly about you."

"I do regret not having accepted your invitation to dinner yesterday then, but I was too tired. Talking to Tauriel … wearied me."

Thorin threw a questioning look at him.

"There is bad blood between us ever since … Well. She did not like that I refused to aid her beloved when he got injured during your infamous escape in those barrels," Thranduil sighed. "And my strength is not as it was in any case."

They then entered the living quarters of the common folk, and the noise and bustling of busy dwarves rose around them. Despite the size of the cavern their hollows, apartments and halls were hewn into, there was very little echo. The stairs that led upwards to the dwellings nearer the ceiling did not shadow the ground either, as the cavern was lit with braziers, torches and the new elflights. Dispersed across the rock small holes, windows and open doors let out the shine of homes, giving the impression of a truly living mountain watching them with a thousand flickering eyes.

Contemplating his people's truest wealth, that of their lives and home, Thorin cautiously asked: "Did the anchoring not help you regain your energy?"

"Oh, it did, in some ways. But the reason why I fell into this deep sleep was that I tried to lift the heavy illusion spells protecting my realm and it rebounded, draining almost all of my strength and power to redirect it back into the enchantments. And while the anchoring allowed me to take strength from you, it did not restore my power." Thranduil made a waving gesture with his free hand. "I could not do magic right now to save my life, and it feels wrong. Usually power can substitute for any shortness of physical strength in elves, but right now there are no reserves I could draw from. It reminds me of the fragility of life, despite my inherent immortality."

"What can you do to restore your magic?"

"I sleep and eat more than usual, and Elrond recommended prayer and meditation." Thranduil looked at Thorin with a derisive grimace. "The latter are not really for me though, as much as I love starlight and revere Elbereth Starkindler. What would I pray for anyway? It would almost be presumptuous to ask for more in my position of wealth and influence."

Thorin looked around, seeing his subjects go about their daily lives. They probably prayed for health and good fortune, as everyone did. They prayed for their children or for good business. They prayed for their wives to cook jerk chicken instead of meatloaf or for the affection of a beloved. They prayed for everyday things, as they were everyday people. What did kings pray for?

"I am not a very devout dwarf," Thorin confessed, waving at a small child who had spotted him and now hid behind her mother's skirts. "Mahal is our maker, and he made us well. But I doubt he could do anything when we were suffering, nor do I think he helped us reclaim Erebor. I believe in the things we do and achieve by will and force. I believe in our abilities and the loyalty of my friends."

"An admirable belief."

"Is it a belief though?" Thorin led the Elvenking up a flight of stairs with the aim of providing them with a vantage point from which they could oversee all of the living quarters. Or at least those located in this particular cavern.

"Of course. You believe in your own and your people's good intentions and abilities. Belief is hope, and you hope for a good life, a prosperous future for your folk. It is a king's belief."

They fell silent as they reached a small platform and looked around, fully immersed in an atmosphere of vividness and chaotic order. Behind them people chattered and climbed or descended the stairs, either oblivious to their presence or deliberately allowing them their privacy. The two guards had to be standing somewhere inconspicuous, because Thorin could not see them, but he felt safe anyway. His people would never hurt him of course.

"Why do you live underground?" Thorin asked after a while. "We dwarves are at home among stone and twilight darkness, damp heat and riches. But elves?"

"During my father's reign we lived further to the south, on Amon Lanc. You would know it as Dol Guldur nowadays. A tall and airy palace, only meant for the king's court. The people lived in tree houses and cottages, in small villages strewn across the forest. It felt wrong to return there when our population was so decimated after the war of the Last Alliance. I wanted to protect those that remained, and provide them with shelter. Then we found the Forest River's caverns, and it was like a forest of stone; protected, yet open and airy enough not to be suppressing. We could all live there in safety and peace."

"A stronghold."

"Yes. And with the darkening of the Greenwood until it turned into Mirkwood it became clear that we needed to prepare ourselves. Every elf was required to learn the art of war, and I wove protective spells of illusion and dream so no one could enter uninvited."

"Erebor is different," Thorin mused. "We did not delve our homes here to seclude ourselves, though of course the mountain is an impenetrable fortress, apart from dragons. No, it is like a crab's shell. Protection, yes, but also the source of our power."

"A home," Thranduil added, sweeping his gaze over the dwellings that were lit with golden lights all around them. "But it did not come from nothing."

"Indeed. Which is why we will go further down, where the mines are," Thorin said and offered his arm to the Elvenking, who gracefully took it and let himself be led down the stairs and into a wide tunnel lit by elflights.

"I see Lady Galadriel's gift is being put to good use," he commented, waving a hand at one of the lights, which glowed in the most common and generic golden light that mimicked the sunlight's effects.

"They are rather useful, especially here in the mines, where foul air has led to explosions far too many times before, despite all precautions and safety measures." Thorin nodded to the miners handling the trams, the pulleys and elevators. They waved their helmets in a respectful salute, before continuing their work. Loud clatter and rumbling filled the tunnels, when a tram laden with ores rolled off, causing everyone to block their ears.

"What noise!" Thranduil marvelled.

"Aye, despite the compulsory use of hearing protections some of these dwarves will get quite deaf in their old age," Thorin said mournfully. What he did not say was that, again despite the best safety measures they could have, most dwarves wouldn't even get to see old age. Some got chronic coughs, others got buried under rockslides or fell to their deaths. It was better now than it used to be, but being a miner was still undoubtedly one of the most dangerous professions during peaceful times.

They weren't here for them though, as Thranduil had wished to see the artisanal districts where smiths, seamstresses and tailors, jewellers, woodworkers, tanners, hunters, cooks and all other kinds of manual workers offered their wares in little shops and stalls. The district itself consisted of one long hall, with the booths arranged in neat rows. Some of the stalls were still original and consisted of stone, some half-crumbled or bearing claw marks, but the newer ones all were made of wood. Each and every one was decorated lovingly to showcase the service offered in this particular spot. Some were hung with perfumed flowers tied with silken ribbons, others were plated with massive shields and blunt blades, a few were practically swaddled in all kinds of cloths, and a large number of the shops rattled and clopped whenever somebody passed by them from all the wooden toys hanging off of them.

Thorin was pleased to see Thranduil's eyes widen with wonder, and the elf insisted on looking at everything they possibly could. He practically cooed at the fine silks and warm wools, giggled – and Thorin would never have believed anyone telling him that the Elvenking giggled, but giggle he did – at the most intricate of toys, and persistently drove weapon smiths to insanity with his haughty comments about the quality of their blades. Also he seemed to have an incredibly sweet tooth, as he half-embarrassedly nibbled at little marzipan flowers and shapes meant for decoration ever since they passed that one bakery shop and Thorin had to incredulously watch him choose "one of each, please". It was still up for debate how the elf managed to balance all of them without damaging or losing a single one while simultaneously eating and looking at new, exciting things.

"It is lucky elves do not get fat," Thranduil only said, licking his thumb clean of bright pink marzipan.

"Indeed," Thorin murmured dazedly, observing the elf twirling a dagger around his fingers like they had not just been covered in sticky, sugary paste moments before. Mahal, he would never forget this. It was worth cancelling every single council meeting for the next few decades at least.

People had also started to stare at them from afar, having recognised their king but not wanting to approach because they were intimidated or antagonised by Thranduil. It also reminded Thorin of the fact that they had spent so much time here already that lunch was long, long past – judging by the angle of the sunlight he had even missed the public audiences he was supposed to hold, and dinner would be served soon. In order to politely cut their tour around Erebor off, Thorin invited Thranduil again to dinner as he escorted him back to his guest chamber.

"I am afraid I should return home," the elf declined just as politely.

"Will you make it before nightfall?"

"Oh, yes, I know a shortcut. And my own forest would never harm me." A soft smile spread on his face. "Do not worry yourself, Thorin. I am not leaving because I did not like Erebor – on the contrary, I have enjoyed my stay here against all odds."

"Against all odds?" he scoffed.

"Yes. When I came here I expected to be humiliated. I had expected you to have told everyone about my shame, to be dragged out again like a common criminal. Instead you showed compassion and a willingness to put aside old strife."

"Why would you expect me to slander your name so?" Thorin asked, secretly hurt. Surely he had never treated Thranduil this badly? But then he did use to tell everyone who liked to listen what an honourless bastard the Elvenking was. Maybe Thranduil's fears were not unfounded.

"I have found dwarves to be a people with little tolerance for failure," the elf only said, a wistful glint in his eyes.

"I still do not see where you failed though. Surely you do not blame yourself for N- … for his death?"

"Of course I do," Thranduil sighed. "I have his blood on my hands, and nothing will ever erase it. No, I was speaking of … the nature of my relationship with him. Elves do not look kindly upon those preferring to bond with those of the same sex. On top of that we were not even of the same race, though since Beren and Lúthien at least relationships between elves and men are tolerated."

Thorin frowned at that, processing what he had just learned about elves. Before he could say anything, Thranduil continued in a gentle, almost apologising and appeasing tone.

"Not all of us are like this of course. I know many who feel more liberally or who support those who chose a life outside of convention. And in general the Silvan elves do not take the rules of the Valar that seriously. Many have remarried after their spouses passed away, even though that is supposed to be … frowned upon, I suppose. But why spend the rest of eternity in mourning, when there is love to be had here? None of the Silvan elves will ever sail to the Undying Lands, and I doubt any of those who went to Mandos' Halls chose to be reborn in Valinor. So why not move on?"

"But you assumed we dwarves were that backwards?" Thorin couldn't help but growl. This was barbaric thinking, and even more so coming from the supposedly wise and cultured elves.

"I had to assume the worst."

"Let me explain something to you: two thirds of our population are of the male sex, and only one third is of the female sex. And we have predestined soulmates. How do you suppose that works if only a man and a woman can be soulmates?"

"I always thought they would be from another race, like men or hobbits," Thranduil replied thoughtfully and came to a halt in front of the door leading to his guest chambers.

"That is not the case though. I already told you that my One was male."

Thranduil looked pensive for a moment, folding his hands in front of himself.

"What are you thinking?" Thorin asked after he had been silent for a while.

"I was wondering who Njál's One had been, and whether he knew them already by the time he and I met. Does it happen sometimes that soulmates do not end up with each other?"

"Of course. Some never meet their Ones," Thorin replied. "Others, like me, who have lost them somehow, either end up as eternal bachelors or marry someone with a similar fate whom they have fallen in love with. Sometimes soulmates never feel more than deeply rooted friendship for each other too."

Thranduil smiled ruefully.

"What strange things to talk about among kings. We are gossiping about lost loves like old fisherwives."

"Why should I not speak of it? Everyone in Erebor knows that my One is gone." Following a strange impulse, Thorin gently took Thranduil's hands in his and removed his brown leather gloves carefully. "I am not ashamed. You should not be either."

A strange gasp escaped Thranduil, when Thorin squeezed his fingers, which felt much warmer and stronger than the day before.

"I will try to learn this from you then," the elf whispered, but the next moment he had gone, slipped past the door and into his chambers like a snowy cloud. Thorin was left with his gloves and an unspoken farewell on his tongue.


	9. The Doubt

**Author's Note: **See what I did there? *points at chapter title* Muahaha. The alternative title would be "the return of the owl and the bacon". And I hope I got Fíli's age right, I'm terrible at math. Because of that I can give no guarantees, but I just finished writing chapter 14. I think this story will have 20 or less chapters. *shifty eyes* Or maybe a little bit more. Just so you don't expect 100 chapters, or just ten.

Translations from Khuzdul, as given in the dictionary by the Dwarrow Scholar:

irak'adad - uncle  
>iraknâtha - niece<br>irakdashat - nephew  
>baraf - family<p>

Enjoy!

-:-

With Durin's day long past and only one more week remaining until the mannish and elvish New Year, the time had come to celebrate the 83rd birthday of Fíli Durin, son of Víli and Dís Durin. As he was the heir to the throne and the title as King Under the Mountain and First Lord of all seven dwarf clans, all of Durin's folk not only in Erebor celebrated with the royal family. Banners of brown and gold – Fíli's colours, which he had adapted from his father Víli's line of Firebeard dwarves – were hung out of windows and his personal crest got painted onto doors or sewn onto clothing. His signature braids were also woven into the hair of many young dwarves who admired the popular prince.

An uncountable number of dwarves had travelled far from Ered Luin or the Iron Hills to take part in the great gala Thorin held in his heir's honour, even though they had tried to keep the affair as humble as possible at Fíli's request. Still, many noble families of Durin's folk were vying for the crown prince's attention, wishing for him to marry or even recognise one of their daughters as his One. At the public event they hosted, Fíli danced with several of the lasses, but declined to accept any of the offers, explaining that he wanted to gain experience first and that he wished to learn from his uncle, the king, how to best help his people and future kingdom before he married.

It was a very diplomatic and unobjectionable answer that would have made Thorin proud, had it not the effect that those men who had offered their daughters to Fíli, and who almost all were of Thorin's age, now tried to convince Thorin of how sensible, noble and profitable a match between their lines would be. For Mahal's sake, every single girl they threw at him was young enough to be his daughter or even granddaughter! And it either almost broke his heart to tell them he was not interested when they started crying pitifully, asking whether they were not beautiful or intelligent enough, or it almost made him explode when their fathers remarked that it was a pity that there was no queen by his side.

"In all the points that matter my sister Dís is the queen," Thorin once grit out between clenched teeth, after which he had to hear barely concealed threats and slandering directed at his sister. If there was one thing he would never bear silently, it was people who disrespected his little sister. He did not regret his broken finger, and even less so Lord Angjer's broken nose, nor did the merchant's threat to take legal action worry him.

"Do as you will, Angjer," he growled, clutching his throbbing fist to his chest. "No one, and I repeat, _no one_ talks about my sister like this without consequences."

"No king in his right mind would ever strike one of his subjects!" the merchant protested nasally, wiping at the blood running from his broken nose. Then he rose his voice until everyone was sure to hear him: "Are you certain- … Are your people certain their king is not still suffering from madness? He draws blood at the slightest trivialities; and look at this meagre feast he holds for his heir, his most beloved nephew. Does it compare to his own coronation feast? No, I say! No, it does not!" Then he leaned forward, a malicious glint in his beady eyes. "Have you counted your gold coins today already, Your Majesty?"

"Guards!" Thorin bellowed, trying hard to block out Angjer's words and their implications. "Guards, escort this man out of Erebor. And let it be known that he is no longer welcome here."

As the warriors led him away, he kept staring at Thorin and shouting about "dragonsickness", "madness" and "gold greed". It was only the touch of Fíli's strong hand on his shoulder that kept Thorin from running after the dwarf and breaking his jaw or neck just to shut him up.

"He is not worth it, **irak'adad**. Let him. We all know you are cured."

But was he really cured?

The look he received from Dís then projected all the strength, love and support he needed to get through the rest of the celebration without tearing out his beard in frustration and fear. Was he really cured? What if the goldsickness returned? Well, he had conquered it before, with the help of his friends and family. In case it ever returned they would still be here to help him. It was all the consolation he had, but he feared it was not enough. That he was not enough, for his family, for his subjects, his kingdom.

_His_.

As he sat at the dinner table, for once not at the head of it, the word echoed through his head.

_His. Everything was his._

What a frightful notion. How dangerous a thought. He remembered thinking it over and over again during those days he spent hungering, searching for the Arkenstone, digging through gold and jewels. He shuddered at the echo of pain that seared through him at the memory of the moment when he _realised_ …

No. All the gold he needed was in Fíli's hair. The only sapphires he loved lay in Dís' eyes. The only rubies he wanted flowed through his family's veins. The only silver he wished for would grow in all of their beards – in some sooner than in others – when they would live to see old age, happy and safe.

He realised that he had been staring at his untouched plate for some while, and his family looked at him with concern. He gave them a soft, slow smile and extended his arms to embrace Fíli and Kíli to his right and left.

"**Irak'adad**?" Tauriel asked gently. "Are you well?"

"I love you. All of you. So much." Thorin said, meeting his sister's eyes. "I thank you for giving me these wonderful nephews, Dís. And Kíli I thank for bringing Tauriel into our family, you are a true blessing, **iraknâtha**. And to you, Fíli," he whispered, framing his nephew's face with his hands and touching their foreheads together, "to you I wish a happy birthday. I am proud of you."

When he clutched his older nephew to his shoulder, he felt the sobs wracking his body and it took all of his willpower not to dissolve into relieved tears as well.

"I love you too, **irak'adad**," Fíli choked out.

"Me too," Thorin heard Kíli cry, before strong arms wrapped around his neck from behind.

"Oh my boys …"

Thorin gave a choked laugh when he felt Dís' head settle on the crook of Kíli's elbow, right by his and Fíli's ears. Her soft beard tickled his skin and he felt like a young dwarrow lad again, cradling his baby sister after they had both cried due to some trivial dispute over a toy or maybe the right to sit in their mother's lap. Of course it would be Frerin who solved everything by hugging them both to his chubby tummy, and there they were, his tears flowed over his cheeks.

"Do you know what I wish for my birthday?" Fíli whispered into his cloak. "That we stay a family, like this, forever. That we will always be together."

"I will do what I can, **irakdashat**. We will all try," Thorin replied hoarsely and pressed a kiss to his nephew's golden hair.

And just for a few moments everything was alright and well in the world, and his mind was at peace.

-:-

Thorin did not like to keep the accounts. He did not like having to inspect the treasury, make an inventory of the things added to it and those they sold or traded for goods. Balin and Dís had noticed of course, and Fíli and Kíli suspected something, but the truth was that he was still afraid. He could not help but remember the horrible things he had done when he had been obsessed with Erebor's treasure. By finding a new purpose for the Arkenstone, by tying his promise of peace to it he had hoped to lessen its terrifying influence on him, but every time he was forced to look upon its ethereal radiance he remembered holding Bilbo in a chokehold. No, the Arkenstone was where it belonged, and that was a deep, deep trunk held closed by a lock, whose only keys he had distributed among the Company, including Gandalf and Bilbo, and of course Dís.

Still, this worry that the goldsickness might return was always somewhere in the back of his head. As he and Thranduil had started writing more personal letters again, one day he decided to address his doubts to the one who might actually know more about it than most.

_Dear Thranduil,_

_My last letter has probably only just now reached you since you did not send my owl friend, but there is an issue that has been bothering me for a long time now, and I simply need to speak to someone who will not say something really meaningless, look at me pitifully or try to hug me. I don't think you would do any of those, so I come to you with this._

_I am haunted by the things that happened when I was in the grip of dragonsickness. The things I said and did. The lives lost due to my greed and stubbornness. Now all is well and forgiven, as everyone assures me, but I still dream of oceans of gold swallowing me whole, drowning me until I try to take a breath and it is not gold but blood instead, and I choke on it. The blood of those I, inadvertently, killed. The blood of innocents._

_Everyone tells me that I am healed. That it is a miracle. But I don't believe that. I am afraid of entering a room full of treasure. I refuse to keep the accounts myself. I wait for the moment the only thought in my head will be "mine" or "more". I don't believe them that I am well now. I don't want to hurt my family, friends and subjects like this ever again._

_Please tell me I am cured, and maybe I will believe you. I must believe you._

_Thorin_

He quickly sealed and sent the letter, not rewriting or rereading it despite the smudged ink that made the words almost illegible in some spots. With trembling hands he watched the candle on his office desk burn down, waiting, hoping for a reply. Of course it was irrational to think a letter from Thranduil would reach him before morning. The messenger would take longer than that to even deliver it. Still he waited, unable to sleep, until morning found him resting uneasily in his office chair, slumped over his desk and slobbering onto some report.

He received concerned looks from Balin because of the rumpled state of his clothes and his unkempt hair. His beard, which had grown quite a bit since they had retaken Erebor, looked like some dead animal as well, except maybe for the thin braid he wore as his signature. The thought of cutting his beard crossed his mind, since it felt like too much of a bother to brush and oil its length after such a long time of wearing a short beard, but that was a bit harsh, so he simply tamed it with a plain steel clasp.

He somehow managed to get through the day without greatly alarming or worrying anyone, so he counted that as a success. After dinner he retreated to his office, hoping to find a reply from Thranduil there, but it was too early yet of course, so he dove into an ocean of paperwork. The last night had taken its toll however, so he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep once he had dragged himself to his bed.

The next morning, when he found a certain owl sitting on the back of his office chair with a parchment roll attached to its foot … Well, he felt very relieved.

_Dear Thorin,_

_I was very alarmed by your letter, and I have wasted no time in drafting this reply. I also sent your dear owl friend again, in order to deliver this letter as fast as possible, and hopefully also to provide you some comfort._

_As far as I know there have been no reports of other dwarves (or other beings in general) that suffered from goldsickness and who got healed. However, and I must emphasise this, it does not mean that curing this sickness of the mind is impossible. It simply has never been accomplished before. You would have to ask someone more skilled and experienced in the art of healing than me – perhaps Lord Elrond could help you ease your mind._

_Personally, I think your concerns are unfounded. The very fact that you worry so much is proof to me that you no longer suffer from dragonsickness. It means that you value the lives of those close to your heart far higher than gold or gems – which is the exact opposite of the effects of dragonsickness._

_I don't know what to tell you to make you believe. Surround yourself with your loved ones. They have helped you once before, and they will do so again._

_Please tell me you feel better. I fear that this letter will not do much to help you, but I do not know what else to say, except to be brave and have faith. This sounds so asinine, since I already told you that I do not pray. The last time I did I was probably a youth, and that was a very long time ago. But I pray for you, Thorin. May your heart be at rest._

_Thranduil_

The owl hooted and stretched out its leg, as if it knew that an answer was required. Thorin smiled involuntarily at the bird's antics and stroked its feathers gently.

"Patience, my friend," he whispered, pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and opened his inkwell.

_Thranduil,_

_I thank you, and assure you that I will be well. You need not worry yourself about me, please. Let us just hope your prayers are heard._

_The reason this fear has returned were the accusations of a merchant who slandered me in public. The thought has not left me ever since. Writing to you about this helped though, since I think you understand the distress of someone who is close to one suffering from this sickness. I simply do not want to burden my family with this any more than I have to. They already suspect that something is going on, and it pains me._

_I apologise that I burden you instead. I am sure you have enough worries of your own. I heard that some Gundabad orcs bypassed our patrols and attacked your warriors. Is everyone well?_

_Thorin_

He bound the letter to the owl's leg and let the bird fly. The next time it returned, he had only just finished his breakfast, but there was some bacon left. He had hoped the owl would come back in time.

_Thorin_

_Nobody died, thank Elbereth, and only one was injured. Enough have died recently, and my people are still recovering from the great losses we have suffered. I do not know how this will go on. I sometimes wonder how Lothlórien or Imladris fare, but they have always been a different matter altogether – for reasons I should not talk to you about and I technically should not know myself either._

_Now you stop worrying about the affairs of my kingdom, and I continue worrying about your mental health, what do you say? My advisors scowl at me for writing during breakfast, and I should stop._

_Thranduil_

_PS: Don't feed the owl, your greasy bacon is not beneficial to its health._

_PPS: His name is Iûl._

Grumbling Thorin still held out his bacon to the owl, and Iûl ate it with relish.

"Yes, you do like your bacon, don't you?" he cooed and stroked its feathers. "Yes, you do. But don't tell Thranduil, he's a spoilsport."

Iûl was a diplomat through and through apparently, since he only chirped and flew off into the morning. Thorin was almost disappointed that he had not been able to send a reply, but Thranduil's reply to his more business-related letter was pending anyway, so their conversation by correspondence was not interrupted indefinitely. This thought was somehow comforting, though he dared not question why.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Tell me what you think! :)


	10. The Freezing

**Author's Note:** This chapter comes with some warnings: Recreational drug use, and what might turn out to be dub-con. If you want to know why check the end notes though this will give you spoilers for this chapter.

Sindarin translations:

Arasuilos - aras (stag) + uilos (everwhite)  
>Morngorthad - morn- (black-) + ngorthad (ghost)<p>

Enjoy!

-:-

It was winter in the north, and everything was quiet and cold. It was a time when most of the singing birds had long left for the warmth of the south, squirrels, bears and marmots slept safe and sound, and the nights were haunted by hungry wolf packs. Families sat in front of fireplaces, sharing tales of spring and summer to warm their hearts, lovers shared passionate nights in the safe darkness, and children sneaked into their parents' beds to warm their freezing toes.

It was in this time that men and elves practiced old, sacred rites of life and death, of light and dark – rites to call forth the rejuvenating power of spring with song, dance, drink and old magic. And for the very first time they were willing to share those rituals with each other and the dwarves.

So here he was now, wearing a wooden half-mask painted in blue and white, together with Dís and Kíli. The three of them had been brought to Dale by Tauriel, who told them that one such winter rite was being held there by her people, the Woodland elves. She had given all of them mask such as the one Thorin currently wore and instructed them to bring several things, among those braiding beads, a piece of jewellery, a band of silk and if possible a music instrument, which of course meant Thorin was required to bring his harp, as cumbersome as it was, and Dís now carried her lute case. Kíli's fidde was safely strapped onto his back.

Tauriel, who had restyled her hair into the braids she wore before she became a so far unofficial part of their family, brought them to a large tent in the middle of Dale. It was larger than any tent Thorin had ever seen before, easily as big as the whole council chamber of Erebor. From within came the golden light of fires, enhancing the peach-orange colour of its cloth, the sounds of merriment and faint exotic scents.

"What have we gotten ourselves into?" Thorin rumbled, readjusting his grip on the cart his harp was strapped to.

"At least it sounds like they have a lot of fun," Kíli shrugged and threw a warm gaze at Tauriel, who regarded him with much the same soft expression.

"It hasn't even started yet. The sun set just recently – we are waiting for the stars to come out."

"And what then?"

"You will see," Tauriel laughed cryptically and approached the tent's entrance, greeting her kinsmen guarding it. Or not so much guarding, as making merry in front of it. They greeted her enthusiastically and embraced her, though they already swayed on their feet. Kíli made an unhappy face at the kisses they rained onto Tauriel's cheeks and forehead, but they let them all in with joyful chattering none except Tauriel understood.

As soon as the tent's flap fell down behind them, the overwhelming fragrance of myrrh left Thorin reeling. All around them he could see torches surrounded by softly smoking incense holders. Dís behind him gasped in wonder, or perhaps in shock at the blatant extravagance of it. He could smell nutmeg too, and as a laughing elf passed them by with a spring in his step there was a hint of sandalwood oil. But the scents were not everything there was.

The sounds of thousands of little jingling bells accompanied the singing and laughing of elves and men, who stood, sat and even lay on pillows or on the carpet-covered ground, mingling carelessly. At the far end of the tent there were musicians; harpists, flutists, singers and string players. Thorin could hear Dalish being spoken as well as common Westron and Sindarin – or perhaps it was Silvan. He had just recently learned from Tauriel that there were dialects among her people that were very different from Sindarin, and that some were too proud of them to even learn their king's native tongue, though he had bothered to learn Silvan.

Everyone he had seen so far wore masks similar to theirs – crude, wooden things, painted with two or more colours and any shapes imaginable. Some were half-masks like theirs, only covering the forehead and their noses. Others wore full masks or even constructs that almost resembled full helmets.

As they slowly made their way through the crowd, Tauriel greeted everyone she knew – and those were a lot of people, especially elves. After a while Dís and Thorin excused themselves to deposit their instruments near where the small ensemble was playing, leaving a slightly upset Kíli with her and her elvish friends.

"Do you think he will be alright with them?" Thorin asked.

"Don't worry, Tauriel loves him – I doubt she will forget him. I understand her, she's probably not seen them for over a year. Kíli should know there are other people in her life besides him. Maybe he will remember that there are other people in his life besides her too."

They left his harp and her lute with the elvish musicians, who were happy to keep an eye on them.

Unsure as to what to do or what they were waiting for exactly, Dís convinced Thorin to get her something to drink. An elvish woman gladly poured him a glass of mead for him and a bubbly golden wine for Dís.

"She'll like this one very much," the lady told him with a wink of the eye, though he was not sure whether it really had been a wink or not. Maybe she just got something in here eye.

Dís did like the strange beverage though, and drained it faster than he his mead.

"I did not realise I was so thirsty," she exclaimed. "Just wait here, I'll get myself another one. I need to know what this is – it's marvellous!"

As she returned with a newly filled glass, she said: "It's almost disappointing, they just call it 'sparkling wine'."

"Be glad they don't have a weird elvish name for it," Thorin chuckled and clicked his mug against her glass. Beneath her mask Dís looked slightly flushed though – but whether it was due to the wine or because of the heat in the tent he was not sure.

Just as they were about to search for Tauriel, demanding to know when something was going to happen, Kíli appeared by their side.

"She said she needed to help prepare something – I think it's starting soon."

Intrigued, Thorin kept an eye out for any activity, and indeed it did not take long for the musicians to cease their playing in order to take up a slow drumbeat. A hush spread, until everyone was silent, holding their breaths. The elves began to sit on the floor, one by one, and the men followed their lead. Thorin threw a glance at Dís, who simply shrugged and made herself comfortable on the ground. He reluctantly joined her and Kíli.

In the complete silence that fell then the clear sound of a small bell emerged. It came again, this time joined by the lower tone of a larger bell, and then the jingling of dozens of smaller ones. Captivated, Thorin strained to hear more, and then there was the drag of fabric; a slow huff; the muffled beat of deliberate steps. Then, as if out of thin air, a billow of silken cloth, and as it settled it revealed a striking form, clad in white.

It stood tall, regal, the massive antlered head proudly tilted upwards, to where the tent seemed to dissolve, giving free the view of a star-splattered sky. Against the blackness of the night-time sky its pale figure rose like the sharp crystals of a pure mountain quartz.

After a few moments of astonished illusion it became clear that a human, or more likely an elf wore this deer-skull mask. Long swathes of all kinds of fabric from silk to linen to even leather flowed down its arms, torso and legs, though feathers covered its shoulders, where it was clear of the silver hair that had been fashioned into hundreds of thin braids, bells and beads hanging at their ends. So those had sounded before.

A second being joined the first, stepping out from between the crowd. This one wore a wooden mask similar to the one each of the spectators wore, though it had been fashioned into the stylised into the features of a grim man, enhanced by the painting in bright red and a contrasting brown. He wore furs only, and carried a longbow like the men of Laketown and Dale used.

He crouched, still immersed in the crowd, apparently using them as cover to watch the white, antlered creature, and like a flash Thorin remembered when he and the Company had been in Mirkwood. He had encountered a white deer – and attempted to shoot it despite Bilbo's warning.

Just when he was about to squirm uncomfortably, the white figure moved, turning its head this and that way. The bells rang softly as it bowed its back and reached for one of the elves in the crowd. The female took off her mask and revealed delicate paintings around her eyes that were fashioned after flowers. She took the creature's hand and let herself be led in a slow, gentle dance that was only accompanied by the jingling sound of the beads and chimes in the bright being's hair. After a while more and more elves rose from the crowd, shedding their masks to reveal floral paintings on their faces and to dance in rhythm with the bells, conducted by the swaying of antlers. This silent display made Thorin think of spring and the reawakening of nature – a thing he was sure elves would like to remember now that winter held the north in a strong grip.

They stopped moving after a while, when the tent's ceiling had been removed completely, and the dancers gazed up at the starry sky. From among the crowd emerged another dancer, wearing the garb of a Woodland warrior, though it had been dyed black. His face was bare, unadorned but for the vivid green of his eyes, and his dark brown hair was bound back tightly in a striking manner. He felt important, but Thorin did not know him.

The warrior brushed past each of the flower dancers, distributing dark green bands of silk, which they tied around their heads or looped around their necks. Then he stepped up to the stag dancer and took his hand, just as a harpist began to play. The flowers gently guided those sitting closest to the pair to sit further away and then lowered themselves in a ring around the couple, setting a parameter.

"_Arasuilos_," the warrior sang in a bright tenor, and the antlered creature answered, voice a deep, reverberating baritone: "_Morngorthad_."

A shiver ran down Thorin's back at the sound, feeling like it seemed familiar. Or maybe it was just the eerie harmonies of the two voices and the harp together that created a mournful atmosphere. They began to dance then, black and white, limbs entangled intimately as they swayed to and fro. Only now that the dark dancer stepped deliberately did Thorin notice the bells strapped to his ankles and wrists. They rang deep and true, while the antlered one's jingled gently, but without rhythm, creating a glittering bedding for their powerful voices. Thorin almost regretted never having learned Sindarin – some of the elves mouthed the words alongside them, captivated smiles on their faces – though the peculiar lilt to their tongues somehow made him doubt it was Sindarin at all. Since this was a Silvan ritual, it would be logical that they sang in the Woodland elves' native tongue as well.

The music slowly accelerated, and the dancers' movement got sharper, more violent, as they ceased to lead each other and now battled for dominance. The black one, Morngorthad's hand was buried in billowing braids, tugging and tearing, while the white one, Arasuilos' feet tried to topple his counterpart. And still they sang, forceful and sharp harmonies that went from loud to ear-stinging within moments.

A drum picked up a wild beat, and they began to stumble, pushing and pulling, chanting turning into howls and screams, until the black one managed to trip Arasuilos and he mercilessly bore down on him, pinning him to the ground with his weight. But the moment the antlered skull rested against the carpeted floor, the up until now forgotten archer figure lunged forward, toppling the dark one. New dancers, clothed in bright red and orange, emerged from the ranks of the elves around Thorin, some carrying the white one to safety, and others bearing down on Morngorthad, led in their attack by the archer.

"It's Tauriel," he heard Kíli whisper, though it almost got lost under the wild drumbeat that flared up as they hauled Morngorthad upright, flinging chanted curses towards him. It took Thorin a while to spot Tauriel among them, since most of the elves in the circle now had bright red or ruddy hair, but there she was, leading the archer to the antlered one, so the dancer could cradle its skull head.

The dancers then sang as a choir, apparently something like a healing song, because Arasuilos rose again, elegant and light-footed as before. He began to tear pieces of fabric from his gown to drape them over Tauriel and her fellow dancers, swaddling them in white. At last he unclasped his long coat and wound it around the constrained body of Morngorthad. They sang again, a tune hauntingly similar to the first one, though slower and in a darker harmony.

In the end the choir settled around the pair of them, and Arasuilos too rested his head on Morngorthad's shoulder, as the archer stood watch and sang a hopeful melody, accompanied by a single flute.

In trance, Thorin only registered that it was over, when people around him began to cheer and applaud, and even then he could see that Dís and Kíli were still overwhelmed too.

"I want to know everything about this story," Kíli said enthusiastically, after the formation had dispersed.

"Yes, we must ask Tauriel," Dís agreed. "Also I want to know what to do now, because it seems that everyone is braiding someone else's hair."

"How uncouth," Thorin growled, patting his pocket for the bead he had brought. He had never intended to give it away. Among dwarves, braiding a bead into someone else's hair always had emotional implications. Seeing so many elves and men around them doing it, in public, and without qualms – it almost made him nauseous with second-hand embarrassment.

"Let's just get another drink, **'amad**," Kíli suggested. A few minutes later the three of them each held a large tankard of heady mead. It felt a bit better already, seeing this frivolous behaviour all around them, and it got less bad with every large gulp of the strong distillate.

Thorin had lost count of the amount of mead, wine, ale and _sparkling wine_ he'd had by the time he realised that Dís and Kíli were nowhere near him. His feet were still steady as any dwarf's, but he had to admit that his head was spinning slightly, and the fast-paced dancing of the elves and men in front of him did not particularly help. And neither did the strong odour of myrrh wafting from a bowl with incense sticks right by his nose.

He was not the only one drunk though. Some of the dancing men were barely vertical or had even resorted to sprawling on the cushions. Elves too moved more sluggishly but nonetheless elegant, their laughs maybe a tad too sharp. But most weren't dancing anymore anyway. There were small alcoves along the outer edges of the tent, where couples or small groups of either or mixed race and gender vanished to, and Thorin had quite an impression of what they were doing judging by the delighted sounds coming from behind flimsy silken cloth.

Out of the corner of one eye he then spotted the bright white figure of the main dancer who still wore the costume of Arasuilos, deer-skull and all. Mesmerised, he watched the creature pick glinting black berries from his companion's palm, vanishing them below the mask. He realised that his own mouth was rather dry and took another swig of the ale he currently had in his tankard, but as he swallowed he wondered what those berries might taste like and why this elegant being was eating them.

Before he could think about it he was approaching them. The dancer sprawled lazily on some cushions, and the other elf knelt beside him, feeding the berries, and from time to time little pieces of what seemed to be a root. Well, Thorin was not surprised anymore at what elves ate. Though as he stumbled over a cushion, the skull-mask turned to look at him, bells tinkled gently, and he felt all stability leave his knees. He could not describe it any differently than that stars were gazing at him from the hollow of the skull's empty sockets. He breathed a lung full of fresh pine and resin, a comforting waft of peace among a sea of myrrh and nutmeg.

The unmasked elf said something in Sindarin, voice sharp and unfriendly, but the dancer waved him away until the two of them were alone amidst the mass of increasingly drunk celebrators. Thorin swayed on his feet and settled for resting on a cushion opposite of this stunning creature. Every time it moved its head the beads and bells in its hair rang, and it felt like lightning that shot through Thorin's veins.

Before he knew it he had scooted closer, the bead in his pocket transferred to his hand like magic, and he beckoned for this regal neck to bow. At first he thought it was another dizzy spell, but it had moved – the dancer was offering. His pale hand tremulously searched among the masses of braids, and like a hidden treasure he unearthed a soft, unbound strand of mithril hair, tucked behind a delicate, pointed ear.

Thorin gasped as he ran the silky stretch of it through his hands, weighing it like a precious necklace. A slight tilt of the antlered head told him not to dawdle too long though, so he quickly separated the strand into six smaller ones and wove frantically, until before his eyes _admiration_ surfaced, spelled in secret knots and loops, and sealed with _affection_ by a single golden bead.

Before he could smooth it back behind the ear where it belonged, the dancer's hand plucked a tiny silver bell from his hair, offering it to him on an outstretched palm. The stars hidden behind bone asked for permission, and he gave it with a silent nod, not trusting his alcohol-addled voice.

Gentle fingers sorted his hair, plucking at locks and parting them, until they settled for a narrow curl down the back of his head. Thorin trembled, breathing in the smell of resin as the hands deftly braided the bell into his hair. It chimed a few times, and the fingers buried themselves in his hair, tilting his head to look back at those star-eyes. A gentle thumb traced the edge of his mouth, and when he let his tongue taste the snowy skin he was rewarded with a pleased purr.

The stars above him spun until he was lying on his back, the warm solidness of the elf's body resting against his torso as if it had been moulded to his form. The antlered head tilted until its skull came to rest against Thorin's wooden mask, and when he dug his fingers into a powerful back, he might have dreamed the warm breath of a gasp ghosting over his face before strong hands pulled him to his feet. They both staggered, drunk on scents of sandalwood and pine, drunk on berries and honey mead, but none of it mattered as they held onto each other until they found the softness and safety of a cushion-stuffed nook, separated from the rest of the tent by layers of silken flaps.

Thorin observed that any kind of touch made this wonderful creature gasp and squirm as if its skin were too tight, too sensitive. He wondered at the flawless expanse of a muscled abdomen for a few heartbeats too long, so the elf could turn the tides in his own favour, and he had Thorin at his mercy. It was almost painfully obvious that he knew tricks no graceful being like him should know, and did not shy from using them to strip Thorin of all dignity. The elf had proven that he could dance and sing – but he was just as good at making others dance and sing for him.

In the hazy swirl of drunken light-headedness and tortured by sensations too great even for his sturdy body to bear, Thorin lost himself in bursts of divine pleasure. He felt like a harp, plucked and caressed by searing hot hands. He felt like a fiddle, stroked and pierced by blunt nails. He blindly fumbled for silken flesh and grasped it, eliciting musical moans and gasps that fell on his ears like fresh snow. But even dwarvish endurance and elvish perseverance had to end, so when he felt his partner fall with a strangled cry, he allowed himself to be enveloped in the burning waves of release as well.

He fell asleep to gentle huffs of breath ghosting over his neck and a hand, warm as embers, resting above his heart. His dreams were of crystal quartz and bone, stars and golden bells, wrapped up in warm silk.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> I would like to hear your thoughts :)

* * *

><p><strong>PS: Spoiler-y trigger warnings.<strong> It has to do with why the chapter is called "The Belladonna": Thranduil (I'm sure everyone figured out that Arasuilos is Thranduil, right? Well, Thorin didn't) was eating deadly nightshade (those black berries someone is feeding him), and also mandrake root. It makes him a) prettier and also b) very aroused. Thorin was drunk. This alone could be counted as dub-con. Plus they both consented to sexual intimacy without any strings attached - because they thought this was a stranger they were taking to bed. They did not, however, consciously consent to sex with _each other_. Hence the possible dub-con interpretation. Next chapter more about this. Let's just say Thranduil is pissed.


End file.
